


I Don't Like You, But I Love You

by sweetbutterbliss



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fluff, Frottage, Full Shift Werewolves, Humiliation, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Oral Sex, Pack Dynamics, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetbutterbliss/pseuds/sweetbutterbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smells him before he sees him, the scent competing over the sticky smell of stale beer and sweat.  It smells like burnt sugar, a little bitter mixed in with the sweetness.  He leaves the paperwork on the desk and steps out of his office, passing the bathrooms that he can tell Erica still hasn't cleaned.  </p><p>A lithe, what Peter could only describe as a boy is standing in the middle of the empty bar, one hand gripping the dolly's handle full of boxes of Hair of the Dog; one of the few werewolf beers that doesn't taste of ass.  (And Peter would know.)  His mouth is slightly parted as he surveys the bar and Peter suppressed thoughts of what he could put in that mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [gifset.](http://verobird.tumblr.com/post/103851639061/steter-biker-bar-au-stiles-isnt-the-usual) It kind of ran away with me. Hopefully it lives up to Verobird's original idea. *crosses fingers*
> 
> Beta'd by [Heather.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HTH31/pseuds/HTH31)
> 
> Title from the song [You Really Got a Hold On Mean by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdDnqSFYXFs)
> 
> This is finished, just waiting for more beta'ing cause lord knows I need it.

He smells him before he sees him, the scent competing over the sticky smell of stale beer and sweat. It smells like burnt sugar, a little bitter mixed in with the sweetness. He leaves the paperwork on the desk and steps out of his office, passing the bathrooms that he can tell Erica still hasn't cleaned. 

A lithe, what Peter could only describe as a boy is standing in the middle of the empty bar, one hand gripping the dolly's handle full of boxes of Hair of the Dog; one of the few werewolf beers that doesn't taste of ass. (And Peter would know.) His mouth is slightly parted as he surveys the bar and Peter suppressed thoughts of what he could put in that mouth.

"You're not the usual guy," Peter smirks when the human jumps and turns sharply, his limbs flailing in shock.

"Uh...yeah, Boyd couldn't make his usual route today. Can you sign for this?" he kicks the bottom box gently with the toe of his sneaker.

Peter nods. "Aren't you a little young to be a delivery boy?"

"I'm twenty three, sir," the boy raises an eyebrow and his mouth curls up at one corner. The sun shining through the high windows lights him up and Peter allows himself to look at the broad shoulders that taper down to his stomach where his shirt has ridden up, and a small thatch of his happy trail is visible. He feels his fangs begin to emerge, and he sighs through his nose to control it.

He steps forward with a hand out. "As much as I like the sound of 'sir', my name's Peter Hale. Welcome to my humble establishment."

"Stiles Stilinksi, sir," Stiles laugh is cut short as Peter uses the handshake to jerk him forward until they're chest to chest. Stiles is caught off balance and leans into Peter's chest with a squawk.

"It's nice to meet you, Stiles," Peter says the name slowly, liking the way it feels in his mouth. 

"Uh...likewise," Stiles puts on a brave front, Peter will give him that.

"I can smell your fear...and your lust," he lets his eyes flash and his voice drops to a growl. 

"Ew. Gross, dude," Stiles complains, but he doesn't step back. Even when Peter leans in closer to smell, he simply tilts his neck back and swallows.

Peter runs his nose up the side of Stiles' long, pale throat and breathes in, expanding his lungs in an attempt to inhale the scent as deeply as he can. He releases Stiles' hand and grips him at the hip instead, his thumb brushing against bare skin under Stiles' too-short shirt. He licks over the pulse point and the low moan he gets in return has his hand clenching tighter; forgetting himself until the pained "oof" from Stiles brings him back.

"Did that hurt?" he sighs the question, annoyed that he's even bothering to ask.

Stiles nods, "A little."

"I could kiss it better," Peter squeezes again, relishing that he's probably leaving his mark on this stranger. Stiles nods again and Peter pushes his shirt up a little higher, the tips of his fingers brushing across the hard stomach he finds there. His wolf wants to grab this boy and carry him away to ravage and cover in his own scent. He considers it, imagining Stiles spread across his bed, sweaty and covered in their mingled come. He bites off a rising growl as his claws pop out and press gently against the vulnerable stomach. The way Stiles suddenly smells overwhelmingly of lust, but still under laced with a hint of fear, has him rutting forward without thought.

Right until someone clears their throat and he snaps around with a snarl, only to find he's been interrupted by his own sister. Alpha Talia raises an eyebrow, not even bothering to flash her eyes at Peter's actions. 

He tries to clear his head but all he wants to do is display his dominance, slash through the throat of his Alpha. All over a boy. He takes a deep breath, but then realizes that won't actually help when his nose fills with the scent of Stiles. 

But Stiles decides it for him, wiggling out of his grip and tripping backward. 

"I'm so sorry, Alpha Hale," he presents his throat, his face a delightful flaming red. 

"Emissary Stilinski, there's really nothing to apologize for. I imagine it was entirely my brother's fault." 

"Erm...he started it?" Stiles finishes with a wince and a shrug, making Talia laugh.

"I'm afraid I did, sister dear. I couldn't help myself. He just looks so juicy."

"Eww," Stiles mutters and Talia laughs again.

"Well, try not to maul the human right in the middle of your bar, Peter. I know we've had conversations about discretion before," she chides lightly.

"Ah yes, I seem to remember something about that. It means to maul them in private, isn't that it?" he smirks at Stiles when he hears him swallow audibly.

Talia cuffs him around the back of the head and shoos him out the room. He goes reluctantly, feeling Stiles' eyes on him as he retreats to his office.

***

"The thing is...he's really gross," Stiles shouts in Scott's face. The music is thrumming outside the bar and Stiles has maybe pre-gamed a little too aggressively. He's wiggling to the music and flailing around whilst he talks. More than usual anyway. Scott listens and nods, reaching out to stop him from knocking over a row of bikes he's nearly tripped over twice.

"Right. Gross. You said that," Scott nods, watching the parking lot and brightening when he sees Kira hurrying towards them.

"I'm so sorry," she smacks a kiss to Scott's mouth and one on Stiles' cheek. "I can't believe you got us an invitation to Hale on Wheels."

"Pretty sure Alpha Hale just wants to parle with our True Alpha here," he slings an arm around Scott's neck and grins.

"Well that's your job, our True Emissary," Scott pushes him off.

"That's me!"

They reach the front of the bar and hand over their ID. The huge bouncer glares pointedly at Stiles' drunken swaying, but waves them in when he realizes who Scott is. 

***

Stiles is sweaty and surrounded by werewolves. He isn't sure who he's dancing with; he'd started out with a skinny guy with half a shaved head, but now he's with a giant bear of a man who's wearing far too much leather for polite company. Stiles doesn't care, he's perfectly happy swiveling his hips and moving into whose ever arms will have him. The music thrums throughout his whole body and he hasn't stopped for a break once in the last hour. He's been asked if he wants a drink or to go somewhere 'quiet' and every time he shakes his head no. That's not what he came for. He came to get his dance on. 

He pushes his sweaty hair out of his face and tries to move away from Giant Bear McGrabbyHands, but he doesn't make it far. The Were grabs him around the waist and reels him back in, and Stiles laughs nervously, struggling against the vice grip and pushing uselessly at the guy's biceps.

"Hey. No touchie!" he smacks at the huge chest, but the guy just laughs and hauls him bodily through the crowd. Stiles looks frantically for Scott but can't see anyone he knows. He inhales a deep breath to scream, knowing even above the noise Scott will hear him, but his scream chokes off with a grateful 'thank God' when Peter Hale comes to his rescue, his eyes burning an icy blue. Stiles knows what that means and so does the bear, because he drops Stiles without warning, throwing his hands up and backing up towards the exit.

Scott has come to the rescue (a little late thanks, Scott) and is currently standing shoulder to shoulder with Peter over Stiles. Both men are partially shifted and growling, the crowd edging back, some with fear on their faces and some filled with glee at the prospect of a fight. Stiles lets Kira haul him up, he got over being weaker than the smallest members of the pack a long time ago, and he wobbles his way into Scott's line of site. 

"Hey, bro. As impressive as this display of territory protecting is...the guy's gone. Job done."

Scott melts back into his regular goofy face, looking chagrined and Stiles lets himself be manhandled by Scott checking for injuries.

"Stiles, you're bleeding." 

His reply is cut off when suddenly unfamiliar werewolf arms are wrapped around him (again), and unfamiliar werewolf teeth too close for comfort. Peter grips his head and tilts it forward, the tips of his claws surprisingly gentle. He's still growling but it sounds pained, rather than angered, as he prods at the top of Stiles' head. 

"Ow. Ow! Fucker!" he's shocked into silence when Peter licks at the cut.

"Dude..." Scott and Kira gape at the sight with twin looks of revulsion. 

"You're hurt," Peter picks up Stiles like a football and starts making his way through the crowd. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Stiles wiggles as hard as he can. "You save me from that guy just to do the exact same thing?! Not cool!" 

He can hear Scott and Kira following and protesting, but Peter doesn't reply, just barrels his way toward the back office and sets Stiles on his feet. He grabs Stiles by his shirt when he sways off balance and then turns his back. 

He opens a cabinet against the far wall and Stiles feels his heart skip in fear until Peter turns around with a white First Aid box clutched in his claws. He holds it out to Stiles, breathing heavily. 

"I don't know what to use," Peter explains, the words lisping around his fangs, when Stiles just stares at him blankly, and shoves the box into Stiles' chest. 

"Right. Guess furries don't have to use these very often," he takes the box just as Scott and Kira rush in. They stand in the doorway, blinking confusedly at the sight of Stiles casually sitting on the edge of the desk, legs dangling, and Peter hovering, still partially shifted. 

"A little help, Kira. You know how I get around blood," Kira nods and shoves past the two wolves to play nursemaid.

"I have to go," Peter snarls as he turns and runs out of the door, shoving Scott against the frame to get past.

"Well, that guy's...weird." 

"I know right?!" Stiles shouts flailing his hands.

"Would you stay still, Stiles!" Kira admonishes. "The quicker I get done, the quicker we can leave this place!"

***

It turns out he needs stitches and Melissa insists someone stays with him to make sure sure there's no other damage.

"How will we know the difference?" Boyd laughs when Stiles swats at him ineffectually. This is how they end up having a sleepover.

"It's not a sleepover, Stiles," Lydia rolls her eyes. 

He lies awake for a really long time, his mind replaying the flash of Peter's eyes. A blue eyed wolf means you've killed an innocent, which is frowned upon even in werewolf culture. Blue eyed wolves aren't to be trusted, they're the boogieman for the big bad wolves. 

So why can't he stop thinking about the guy? Their first meeting had him jerking off in the jeep in the fucking parking lot. Scott had wrinkled his nose and given him his judgmental face next time he'd given him a ride. Stiles had just shrugged and smirked. 

It's considered very bad etiquette to haul a human around like Peter had tonight, but Stiles can't deny it had turned him on, even in the midst of a head injury and surrounded by people who could smell his arousal; his dick didn't care. 

He's obviously fit to be out in public otherwise Alpha Hale wouldn't let him even be in the bar, much less own and run one. Maybe there's a story. He sighs and scrunches at his pillow, rolling over to his side. Maybe he's just making excuses 'cause he wants to climb Peter like a tree. His dick agrees as it twitches at the thought; he can see Peter in his head, holding him up against a wall and fucking him hard and fast. Sex with Peter would be hot like burning and so _so_ filthy. Stiles lets out a groan of frustration into his pillow.

"Oh my God, Stiles. I can smell you. Stop thinking!" Isaac complains and kicks him in the hip. He probably means it to be a gentle tap but Stiles begs to differ, because _werewolf_ , as he curls away from him with a pained "oof." At least it makes him stop thinking sexy thoughts about Peter Hale. That's probably for the best. Right?


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a few weeks and Peter is positive that he's gotten the kid with the stupid name out of his head. He can barely even remember what he smelled like. He's made sure of that with one new conquest at a time. He's just seeing the latest out of the door, Micayla, he thinks (as if it matters), as his alpha steps off the elevator and makes her way toward him. She nods politely at the girl as they cross paths and smirks knowingly at Peter. 

Peter leaves the door open as he re-knots his kimono tighter and pads into the kitchen to make coffee. He needs coffee to deal with his sister this early in the morning. 

"Peter. You really need to open a window. It reeks in here."

"If you don't like it you can always...I don't know...leave," he grumbles, refusing to look at her, his arms crossed tightly.

"And I will, gladly. It smells like a brothel in here for God's sake." 

Peter sighs loudly through his nose and takes down a cup of coffee, setting it down with a thud. 

"Not going to offer me any?"

"No, I wouldn't want you to over linger in my brothel. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure, darling sister of mine?" he smiles, if you can call it that, but it's more of a baring of teeth if he's honest.

"You know, you're lucky that we're related."

"Or you'd have me killed for impertinence. Yada yada yada."

"No. I'd never kill you, Peter. String you up, torture you, let you heal...torture you again. You know how it goes," she smiles bright, her dark hair swinging as she claps her hands. 

"Lovely as that thought is, what can I do for you, Alpha?" he tacks on the honorific in only the slightest of mocking tones. Talia is lenient with him because he's obedient when he needs to be, but she has her limits.

"Of course. I came to check in on you. Erica says you've barely left your "sex den" for weeks," she makes air quotes with her fingers. 

"Hardly. I have to leave to find my willing victims." 

"Peter," her tone is sharp and just this close to an Alpha command.

Peter straightens from his slouch and suppresses an eye roll. "Not literally." 

"Of course not," Talia assures, but visibly relaxes. 

"Again. I find myself asking, why are you here?"

"We have an official negotiation meeting with the McCall pack. I'll need you there."

Peter scowls at the coffee machine. "Do I have to be there?"

Talia, who had been making ready to leave, pauses. "Of course you do. You're my right hand. Why ever would you not? You love all that posturing nonsense."

"It's not posturing, it's tradition," he clears his throat when he realizes how whiny he sounds. 

"Right. Tradition." 

"It is!" he barely restrains himself from stamping his foot. 

"We're getting off point here. Why would you not want to come?"

"No reason. I'm just too busy." 

"I haven't even told you when it is."

"I...just...I'll probably have plans. I'm a very busy wolf. After all, I have a brothel to see to." 

Talia scoffs and re-shoulders her purse. 

"Tomorrow at ten am, my office. If things go well, we'll discuss a pack run on the next full moon."

Peter just nods, frowning at the floor. 

"And for the love of God, take a shower," she lets the door slam shut behind her and Peter feels better after he's made a few mocking faces at the door.

"Take a shower," he simpers in a falsetto voice while pouring his coffee. 

"I can still hear you!" Talia announces from the hallway and Peter spills his coffee all down his front. 

***

The negotiations go well, all hand waving and formality, nothing more. The Hale pack and the McCall pack can only really get to know each other when they run together during the next full moon; Peter is looking forward to it for no particular reason. He cracks his neck and attempts to concentrate on the spreadsheets in front of him. 

But all he can see is that squirmy little shit. The way he'd sat during the meeting, slouched down with his long legs spread wide, had shot Peter's concentration all to hell. Talia had had to repeat herself to him more than once, and he'd growled audibly when Stiles laughed, his cheeks flushed. 

Luckily, McCall isn't much of a posturer, or a danger for that matter. He has some ridiculous notions about talking things out instead of ripping out throats. Peter scoffs to himself and rolls his eyes just thinking about it. True alpha or not, the kid is damn naive. 

"Are you talking to yourself, Mr. Hale?" 

Peter stiffens and turns his office chair around slowly; he can't believe he's been snuck up on like this. Stiles is lounging against the door, one foot propped up against the wood, his arms tucked behind his back. 

Shoving the chair back until it hits the wall with a thump, he all but launches himself at the kid. Stiles has shut himself in with a werewolf in its own territory; it's really his own fault. 

He doesn't waste time with kissing, just slides his hands around to the back of Stiles' head and tilts it up so he can bite. He doesn't wait to ask for permission, or see if marking is okay, he just dives in and mauls the pale flesh of Stiles' neck. Peter bites down and sucks, Stiles gripping at his shoulders, his hips arching up and pressing against Peter's crotch. They're both almost all the way to hard in a matter of seconds.

Peter rips Stiles' shirt collar out of his way, the sound of tearing fabric loud in his ears. It flutters down to reveal one taut pink nipple, and he can't stop the growl that he emits as he attaches his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. Stiles is already panting above him, his hands twisted into Peter's hair, tugging and pulling him back, but when Peter releases him, Stiles makes a sound of confusion. 

Peter laughs and reaches between them to undo his own pants. 

"You wanna suck my cock?" he's already pushing Stiles down, not that he has to. Stiles drops easily to his knees, looking directly into Peter's eyes as he does.

"Yes," Stiles breathes across the head of Peter's dick and takes it in his hand, giving it a few quick tugs. Peter leans forward with his hands flat against the door, looming over the human who looks up at him with a smirk, as though he thinks he's in charge. How endearing.

Peter arches his hips forward until the head of his dick pushes past Stiles' slightly parted lips. Stiles puts a hand on Peter's hip and encourages him further, so he lets his dick slide the rest of the way in, cursing quietly as Stiles swallows. He wraps his tongue around the shaft as he bobs his head, and Peter has to close his eyes, letting his hips fuck forward a little, but mostly content to have Stiles do most of the work. 

Stiles keeps letting out little moans and gasps, and palming himself like having Peter's cock in his mouth is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him. He pulls off Peter's dick with a wet pop, gasping, but he keeps his mouth open, his tongue sticking out to catch the drops of precome, his hand continuing to jerk Peter off. Peter braces himself against the door better, and use his bare foot to press against Stiles' bulging erection.

Stiles bucks forward with a loud moan and returns to the blowjob with renewed vigor, as Peter massages Stiles' erection with the ball of his foot, pushing hard, causing Stiles to grind against it. 

"Aren't you a sight," Peter murmurs, running a hand through Stiles' hair, gripping the short ones at the back of his head to pull it backward. Stiles looks up at him, his mouth red and swollen, his eyes watering. "Here, let me." 

He holds Stiles in place while he shallowly face fucks him, thrusting a little deeper each time. Stiles is non-stop moaning now, drool and precome sliding down his chin, and when he comes, Peter feels the way he spasms from inside his mouth. Stiles suddenly goes limp, sliding down the door and letting Peter's dick pop out of his mouth. Peter shrugs, taking himself in hand, it's really no trouble at all. It only takes a few strokes before he's coming all over Stiles' panting face. He may have gotten him in the hair too. Whoops. He shudders through his orgasm, curled in on himself as though it's hurting him. Once the aftershocks subside he squats down before Stiles and grasps his chin.

"Did you come in your pants, Stiles dear?" 

Stiles nods, his expression thoroughly dopey. At that, Peter smirks and begins licking Stiles' face clean with long, broad strokes.

"Gerroff me. Gross..." Stiles slurs and flails ineffectually, more akin to pawing than anything else.

Peter sits back on his heels and stands in one fluid motion, rummaging around in his desk drawers until he comes across a pack of wet wipes. He nudges Stiles with his foot until he groans and hauls himself up using the door for leverage. 

A languid smile crosses his face, and his pupils are almost entirely dilated; enough that Peter can barely tell what his eye color is any more. _Amber,_ his brain provides, and he scowls. He thrusts the packet into Stiles' hands and shoves him away from the door. 

"That was satisfactory. Now, I have actual work to do, if you don't mind," Peter opens the door and sweeps his arm toward the exit. 

"Satisfactory?!" Stiles exclaims. "Get the fuck out! That was awesome." 

Peter shrugs.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?"

"So I've been told. Call me if you'd like to try again," he raises an eyebrow and leans against the door.

"Go fuck yourself," Stiles mutters and sweeps out the door, his head held high and his shoulders pushed back. Peter admires him for having such dignity even with come drying on his face and in his boxers. 

***

Stiles is still seething two weeks later, so much so that even his friends have started to glaze over when he opens his mouth to rant. 

"I don't see the problem. You said it was good. So he was a dick at the end? It's not like you were gonna marry Peter Hale," Isaac snorts into his soda. 

They're driving over to the Hale house out on the preserve; it's the night of the full moon and the much talked about pack run. 

Normally a pack as well known and powerful as the Hales wouldn't give the tiny McCall pack the time of day. But Scott's a True Alpha and Stiles is well known as the human who fights off Alphas with just a baseball bat. Not to mention the fact that they include a banshee and a kitsune. They're unique and Stiles figures Talia isn't stupid enough to pass up some kind of mutual help-meet. 

He brakes as the poor Jeep goes jostling over the dirt track and smiles vindictively when Isaac spills his soda all down his front. 

"Fucker," Isaac hisses while dabbing at himself, Stiles shrugging in reply.

He's got his famous bat tucked in the back between their overnight bags; he knows it's a friendly visit but one can never be too prepared. Besides, what the stories don't say is how it's made from mountain ash, rubbed down with wolfsbane oil, and been enchanted to within an inch of it's wooden life. 

He pulls up in front of the house and pretends that he isn't looking for Peter in the crowd of restless weres. 

"He's already gone running," a busty blonde smiles innocently at him from a few feet away.

"I dunno what you're talking about," Stiles huffs. 

"I'm Erica, by the way," she starts to hold out a hand but is suddenly distracted by Boyd tossing Stiles his duffel. 

"You'll have to get your own stupid bat," Boyd orders in his quiet voice. 

"Who are you?" Erica eyes Boyd up and down, and Stiles is amused to see him blushing. "Come with me big guy, I'll show you off."

Boyd lets himself be dragged away, a dazed smile on his normally stoic face. 

The Hale pack is huge, Stiles has never seen so many weres in one place. They're a ragtag bunch with a preference for leather and beards; there are maybe fifteen or twenty humongous motorcycles lined up beside his Jeep. He gives them a wide berth, just imagining what would happen to him if he knocked them over. 

The rest of the pack is mingling and Stiles drags his duffel over to where Talia is presiding. She nods her head formally and Stiles nods back. 

"Alpha Hale, thank you for allowing us to use your land tonight," it's custom to give gifts because werewolves are fucking archaic and have a ritual for everything. Do the hokey pokey and put your left foot in, before doing the chicken dance. Stiles doesn't think he can come up with anything tangible that they don't already have, but he does have his magic.

"In exchange, I'd like to offer my services," he waves his hands in a ta-da way. "I'd like to check your wards and maybe add to them if necessary." 

Talia nods again, her mouth a flat line. "Thank you Emissary Stiles, we'd be honored. We've heard of your strong magic far and wide."

Stiles can't help it as he bursts out laughing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just feel like I'm playing some kind of roleplay game." 

Scott and a few Hales watch him, scandalized, until Talia cracks a smile. 

"I think you and your pack will be a refreshing change of pace," she stands up and runs a hand over Stiles' hair, subtly scenting him, and goes to speak to Scott trailed by her betas. 

***

Stiles is exhausted, the Team Squishy Human (and banshee, thank you very much) had stood on the wide porch watching the wolves melt into the dusk, their playful yips and howls echoing around the house. Before it got fully dark Stiles had been around the house working his magic. He'd had Lydia carry a flashlight and listened to her gripe about her heels getting mud on them, until he'd agreed to buy her a new, more costly, pair. 

"And a dress to go with them," she'd demanded.

Stiles had rolled his eyes but nodded. 

The wards on the house were archaic and it had taken a lot of energy to update them and add new ones. He'd like to have walked the perimeter but he'd been dead on his feet. Lydia had dragged him back inside to where the rest of the humans had created their own puppy pile with blankets and popcorn. Stiles had flopped onto the one empty couch and promptly passed out, exhausted and hoping the alliance was going to be worth it.

***

A wet nose pressed against his neck wakes him up. He mumbles and tries to roll away, only to have gentle teeth press around his arm and tug.

"What the fuck?" he opens his eyes and blinks at the wolf in his face. It's rangy and sandy colored, eyes glowing blue in the dark and its tongue lolling out almost comically.

"Peter?' he guesses. The wolf tilts its head and licks across Stiles' face. "Goddamn it. My mouth was open and everything, you asshole," he whispers angrily.

He pushes Peter back and sits up a little. There are still people on the floor fast asleep and a few of the wolves have returned, Kira and Scott are curled up together on the other couch, their muddy feet sticking out from a blanket. 

The wolf grabs him with his mouth again, not pressing down but pulling a little insistently.

"Has Timmy fallen down the well again, Lassie?" 

Peter snorts and tugs harder. "Ah fine. I'm up!"

Stiles swings his legs around to the floor and stands with some effort, still feeling drained from earlier, and shuffles along behind the loping werewolf, his toenails clicking on the wood floor. He leads them to a door that he pushes open with his nose. 

"Oh thank fuck. A bed," Stiles doesn't care whose it is, he just face plants into the soft pillows. He doesn't look up when he feels Peter hop up beside him and drape himself across Stiles' back, just awkwardly reaches behind and pats Peter's snout.

"Good doggy."

Peter nips him, just short of painfully, and Stiles grumbles, but the warmth of the fur and the vibration from Peter's quiet rumbling puts him to sleep again within minutes.

***

Sunlight floods the room and Peter blinks awake back in his human form. He feels lazy and his muscles are loose as he stretches his arms above his head. He always feels his best after a full moon run, but something is inherently better today. He's deeply content and wants nothing more to just curl up in the sun and bask next to...Stiles? Oh.

He tries to frown about it, but his wolf is still too close to the surface and doesn't give a shit about Peter's complaints. It's urging him to bury his face into the back of Stiles' neck and scent him all over. Stiles is sweaty and sleep warm, and Peter is naked and hard. 

He props himself up on his elbow and licks his lips. Stiles is sprawled out on his back, dead to the world. He's still fully dressed but his shirt has ridden up revealing a flat, pale stomach and a surprisingly thick trail of hair leading down into his jeans. Peter runs a hand up under it and brushes his fingers across a nipple. Stiles doesn't wake up but does smack his lips and shifts closer to Peter.

"Stiles?" he shakes the boy a little. 

"Mmm?" Stiles frowns, his eyes still shut tight.

"I want to fuck you right now. Snore once for yes." 

Still frowning, Stiles waves a hand at him nonchalantly. "Yeah, yeah. Just lemme sleep." 

"Of course, I'll do my best not to disturb you," Peter strokes soothing circles on Stiles' skin until his breath evens out again and his mouth is hanging open in the most obscene way. Peter thinks of face fucking him again, but he's already done that. He wants to do something new. Routine is the silent killer, after all.

Sliding further down the bed, he moves until he's kneeling between Stiles' sprawled legs; his dick bobbing neglected in the air as he leans over the boy to unbutton his jeans. He laughs, surprised at the ridiculous Wonder Woman underwear, but Stiles still doesn't stir. Using both hands to gently wiggle everything off, he stops now and then to lick the slowly revealing skin, dumping Stiles' jeans on the floor, before leaning back on his heels to look at the sight in front of him.

Stiles is soft, his cock lying in the curve of his hip. Peter likes this almost better than the frantic, leaking hard ons of his usual conquests. He can take his time and watch Stiles get aroused. He pets it gently, the skin velvety smooth, then tugs a few times, already feeling it chub up in his palm. He slides his hands under Stiles' knees and pushes them up and back, pressing them further down until his palms are flat against the back of Stiles' thighs and spreads them a little. 

Stiles is easy and pliant beneath his hands, still asleep even as his cock begins to harden fully. He looks delicious spread out this way, with his tight little hole on display. Peter angles his hips and presses his dick against it, rubbing slightly but not pushing in at all; he doesn't want to break his toy before getting a chance to really play with it. 

He moans at the way Stiles asshole feels like it's trying to suck him in anyway, shuddering out a breath and pulling back before his wolf takes over and does something stupid. He has to squeeze the base of his dick for a few seconds to calm himself down, and when he feels more in control, he maneuvers Stiles so his knees are draped over Peter's shoulders and his ass is lifted in the air. Stiles is almost upside down and still, somehow, incredibly asleep.

Peter wraps a strong arm around his waist and wastes no time in burying his face in Stiles' ass. It's not a great angle to get as deep as he'd like, and his hands are full holding the limp body in place so he can't spread the cheeks for a proper tongue fucking, but he doesn't let that stop him, plunging his tongue in as far as it'll go and licking broad strokes across the fluttering hole. It's messy and wet, saliva running down and dripping over Stiles' balls and his now full cock. Peter groans and loses himself in the taste of Stiles, rubbing his stubble against the sensitive ass cheeks, turning them red, mouthing at Stiles' taint and sucking his balls, before returning to fucking into his tight little furl. 

He opens his eyes when he hears Stiles make a choked off noise, looking down to see wide amber eyes staring up at him.

"Good morning." 

Stiles gapes incredulously, his mouth working soundlessly, so Peter grins and laves his tongue from Stiles' hole all the way up to his balls and gets a surprised, but pleasured, gasp for all his trouble.

***

Stiles wakes up in increments, his thoughts fuzzy and warm. He feels good, better than good actually, considering his exhaustion the night before. He feels pleasure skittering across his nerves, his whole body lit up with satisfaction. It extends to his finger tips and all the way down to his toes, like his magic does; in his head he can visualize it as light bursting out of him in rays. 

Gradually he becomes aware of how hard as fuck he is, and that the pleasure seems to be centering around his dick; he still feels good all over but something else is happening and he can feel the weight of something against his ass. Something warm and wet. He slowly opens his eyes and thinks he must still be dreaming because it feels like his body is out of place, his head is crooked against the pillow but the rest of him is somehow suspended at a 45 degree angle. He blinks and tries to regulate his breathing, his vision clearing as he wakes fully, and sees that he _is_ upside down being held up by muscled forearms. His legs are thrown across some frankly ridiculously wide shoulders and Peter Hale is rimming the fuck out of him. Okay then. Things could be worse. 

He moans and can't believe he's back here again when Peter snarks at him. He's loud, but he can't bring himself to care about the house full of other werewolves. 

"Fuck, fuck. Peter. Oh my god, best way to wake up ever," he tries to arch his back and grind up against Peter's tongue, but Peter won't relax his grip and keeps him held still. 

He's staring right up at his own slowly dripping cock smearing across his stomach; if he came right now he'd come all over his own face, and the thought alone has him reaching for his cock only to be slapped away by Peter. 

"You'll come from me or not at all," he uses one arm to keep Stiles held up and uses his other hand to rub at his hole, sliding in all the way and licking around his finger. He adds another, which goes in just as easily as the first. "Mmmm. You taste so good. Can you come like this, Stiles?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Maybe...I don't know," he's clenching the sheets and his whole body feels like it's vibrating now. 

"Oh Stiles, that's disappointing. I think you just aren't trying hard enough," Peter crooks his fingers and Stiles howls at they tap against his prostate. 

Peter is relentless, rubbing against it and licking around his rim until Stiles is a sweaty, sobbing, begging mess. 

"Peter, I need to come. Fuckfuckfuck," he gasps, inhaling in big trembling gulps.

"What's the magic word?" Peter raises an eyebrow and his smile looks entirely lupine in that moment. 

"You gotta be kidding me," Stiles whines.

Peter slips his fingers out and leaves only the tip of one teasing at the rim, leaving Stiles empty as he rocks his head back against the pillow. 

"Fuck. Yes. Please. Please. Make me come you fucking dick," Stiles gives in and Peter pushes three fingers back in, stroking them just right until Stiles comes long spurts across his chest and his own face, shutting his eyes tight when it shoots across his eyebrows. Peter lowers him down slowly and it feels so good, like uncoiling. Big hands massage his thighs and hips, the bed sinking as Peter crawls forward, his cock brushing against Stiles' stomach. He didn't really get a chance to look at it last time, when it was jammed in his throat in Peter's office, but he wants to see it now. He also doesn't want to get come in his eye; it's a dilemma. Peter leans over him, licking at his face, leaving sticky trails across his cheek and eyes and mouth. Stiles chases him with his own mouth and clumsily pulling him back with a hand fisted in his hair. They kiss and Stiles can taste his own come on Peter's tongue. 

He thought Peter would be more selfish in kissing, and in bed generally, but he takes his time, exploring Stiles' mouth with a single minded intensity. His chest rumbles and when they pull back for air, and Stiles opens his eyes to Peter has his own closed and a content little smile on his lips like the the cat that got the cream. Stiles supposes he did, laughing a little at his own joke.

Peter looks down at him, eyebrows raised in the signature Peter Hale expression.

"You're purring dude," Stiles teases. 

"Wolves don't purr," he buries his face in Stiles' neck, rubbing his beard against it and sucking bruises into the skin, but he doesn't stop purring and Stiles grins at the ceiling, running his hands through Peter's sex hair. 

"I wanna fuck you," he bites down just a touch too hard on Stiles shoulder. "I wanna fill you with come until it dribbles out and you smell like me inside and out."

"Wow. That's...graphic. But yeah, I'm down," Stiles wiggles his hips, pressing against Peter's still hard cock. 

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't think of anyone but me every time you move," his voice is nonchalant as he reaches for the side table and comes back with lube. "I'm going to make sure every wolf within a hundred miles knows you belong to me," his eyes flash blue and Stiles gasps, but he's somehow getting harder with every word Peter whispers. 

He's surprised at the gentle touch, how Peter takes his time opening him up even though he's still sloppy with saliva. One finger becomes two, then three and Stiles is writhing, fully hard, before Peter pulls free and lines his cock up. He pushes in slowly, pausing to adjust and ignores Stiles' demands to "just fuck me already."

Stiles loves it and hates it at the same time; Peter above him, fucking into him slow and tapping his prostate just enough to be good, but not every time. He wants to come so bad his dick aches with it but at the same time he doesn't want it to end. He feels surrounded and his whole body is buzzing with it. 

And Peter keeps up a series of filth, all the plans he apparently has for Stiles in his bed. How often he'll fuck him, he's going to fuck him, and how. Which it turns out is a lot, everywhere, and in lots of creative and depraved ways. Stiles is so, _so_ on board. 

Then he's coming again, arching his back, his ass squeezing around Peter who lets out a growl and speeds up, fucking in fast and hard until he stops, his hands bruising painfully against Stiles' hips. Peter looks down with half lidded eyes, his grin is thoroughly over self-satisfied, and Stiles is about to call him on it when he feels something painful pushing against his hole, almost like a dull pressure. 

Peter stutters his hips, his smile disappearing, and a brief look of panic crosses his face before he goes slack and is coming again. The pressure at Stiles' hole is too much and he tries to wiggle away, only to gasp out in pain. 

"Are we stuck together?" he's not proud of how high pitched his voice sounds.

Peter nods and rocks them together, petting Stiles' sticky skin. 

"Dude!" Stiles smacks him in the shoulder.

"It's just my knot. It'll go down," Peter seems to finally be done coming and slowly pulls Stiles up, flipping them so he's on his back with Stiles spread across his chest, still attached. 

"How long? I've never...erm..done this before." 

Peter's face is carefully blank and he's quiet for a moment, running hands up and down Stiles' ribs, sweat slicking his way. Then he seems to shake himself out mentally and smirks. 

"Guess you've never been properly fucked before then." 

Stiles groans and pushes his face into Peter's massive neck. "I shouldn't find you so hot." 

"Oh, I think you should." 

"No. You're gross and creepy." He nods once, affirming himself.

"Such pillow talk. I'm flattered, truly," Peter quips back.

"Oh shut up. It doesn't matter anyway, because for some reason, creepy and gross does it for me. Not to mention all the orgasms. Those help. A lot." 

"I'm so pleased I could help."

Stiles feels his eyes falling closed, the pressure in his ass has lessened and now he just feels full and content, Peter's sweeping massage lulling him to sleep. He's almost entirely asleep, the edges of a dream filtering in when he feels strong arms squeeze around him and a kiss pressed to the top of his head. 

Later, if he remembers it at all, he'll imagine it was part of the dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up alone isn't new to Peter, but the hollow feeling at seeing the empty space beside him is. He doesn't even realize that he's sunk his claws into the bed until he hears the sheets ripping beneath them. He sighs and shakes himself, trying to rid himself of the feelings, like water from his fur.

He sighs, wondering how much shit Talia's going to give him for clawing at her stupid mattress. He rubs a hand across his face and staggers into the shower before he has to face everyone else.

***

Stiles is half draped across the bar, his chin propped in his hands, talking to Erica and the new human bartender, James. Erica keeps trying to shove him back over to the customer side but he manages to scramble back every time.

"So James, what's a cute, young thing like you doing in this shit hole?" Stiles slurs.

"Gotta make some money," James grins, leaning against the bar.

"If you were a vegetable, you'd be a cute-cumber," Stiles blurts out, ignoring Erica's groan.

James leans closer, his eyes crinkled as he laughs. "That was a pretty terrible..."

Suddenly he turns the color of cottage cheese and backs up, slipping behind Erica to the other side of the bar. Stiles gapes at him until he feels arms bracketing him from behind and a warm heat at his back. He wiggles around until he's face to face with Peter Fucking Hale. Again.

"Hey! No cock blocking," Stiles puts his hands on Peter's chest, meaning to push him away but gets distracted by how nice and hard it is and ends up rubbing it up and down instead. He lets a hand slip beneath the vneck to pet at the smooth, naked skin.

Peter's mouth tilts up in a half smile, and he raises an eyebrow. "I was only coming over to say hello."

"Oh, sure. I bet you flashed your eyes at him," Stiles flails his hand in front of his own eyes, and Peter catches him by the wrist before he hits himself in the face.

"I can't help it if your new suitor is such a coward."

"Suitor? I was just looking to get laid. But now that you're here..." Stiles rocks his hips up against Peter's.

"I'm hurt, Stiles. Am I just a convenience to you?"

"Yup. My wolfy bootycall," Stiles punctuates the sentence with a little shimmy.

Peter eyerolls so hard his entire head and neck get in on the action; Stiles is impressed. He frees his wrist from Peter's grip and uses both to slide up behind Peter's head and hang off his neck.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask. What's with the tattoo?"

Peter stiffens and his face goes blank. "It's just a tattoo. Nothing special."

Stiles scoffs. "I find it hard to believe you let someone blowtorch a tattoo onto your _neck_ for no particular reason."

"Drop it, Stiles," Peter's lips are curled back like he's in his wolf form. 

"Why? I want to know. Tell me. Is it why your eyes are blue?'

"I said fucking drop it. Don't you ever stop talking and fucking listen?!" Peter growls loudly enough for other patrons to turn and look at them, curious about what's happening.

Stiles does push him away now, far enough to squeeze past him and walk away. He's outside, taking gulps of the cool air, his head dizzy and his chest uncomfortably tight. He leans against the wall, listening to motorcycles rumble in and out of the parking lot with his eyes closed.

"I'm sorry," Peter's standing before him, fists balled up at his sides, his chin tilted up defiantly, as though waiting to get hit for apologizing. 

Stiles sighs and looks down at their feet, dirty Chucks and dusty leather boots, almost toe to toe.

"S'fine. I do talk too much," he shrugs.

"I've never got that impression," Peter crowds further into his space. "In fact, I think I like the sounds you make," he tilts Stiles' head up and scents him beneath the jaw, his stubble making a rasping noise across Stiles' skin. Stiles tries, and fails, to suppress a shiver as he clutches at Peter's shoulders.

"I...I'm...sorry I pushed."

Peter is sucking a mark behind his ear, big hands on his hips holding him close. Stiles' brain cells are frying one at a time and he's having trouble constructing any kind of sentence.

"Let me take you home," Peter whispers into his ear.

"Mine or yours?" Stiles pants.

"Mine," he pulls Stiles across the parking lot to a massive bike, with a triskelion painted on the side. He pushes a helmet into Stiles' chest and then helps him to strap it on while Stiles fidgets under his hands.

He straddles the bike and offers an arm to help Stiles swing up behind him.

"I've never ridden one," Stiles starts laughing at himself. "I mean a bike. I've ridden other things before."

"You'll have to show me those skills, then," Peter revs the engine and shouts over the noise. "Hold on."

Stiles is immediately sobered by the wind rushing into his face and the precarious unbalance as Peter takes turns and swoops around slow cars; he feels giddy, scared, and excited all at once. He tightens his arms around Peter's waist and presses his face into the strong shoulder in front of him to keep the wind from biting at his face.

***

"Your apartment is huge. You could fit like, ten of mine in here," Stiles gapes, taking the water Peter pushes into his hand.

"Drink," he commands.

"I am, I am," Stiles takes a few sips and starts talking again. "Oh man, look at these windows! I bet you can see the whole city up here."

Peter grits his teeth. "Shut up and drink the water."

"Rude," Stiles mumbles but tilts it back, gulping it down. His throat is a long line of smooth pale skin, and water spills out the side of his mouth, running down his chin. "There. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Peter plucks the glass from him before he can break it and sets it on the coffee table. He follows Stiles' heartbeat into the kitchen where he's standing in front of the open fridge.

"This is pathetic, Peter. A grown man and all you have in this huge, schmancy fridge is ketchup."

"A grown man knows how to dial for take out or take his grown ass out to eat," he pauses, looking around Stiles into the fridge. "Also, there's milk."

"Uh...buddy. That ain't milk any more. You're making butter or something in there. I can't believe you can't smell it."

"Well, normally I don't stand in front of the fridge with the door open," he raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry, sorry," Stiles shuts it and starts pilfering through the cabinets instead.

Peter sighs through his nose. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Nope. Just being nosey."

"Well, at least you admit it."

"Honesty is the best policy," Stiles chirps as he struggles out of his hoodie. "I liked riding on your bike. Will you take me again? For a longer ride this time."

Peter shrugs nonchalantly; he really does want to. Long arms wrapped around his waist and the boy's face pressed into his neck, he could feel the heartbeat thrumming hard against his back. But instead he leans against the counter and smirks.

"I can take you for a longer ride alright."

Stiles lets out a loud laugh. "You're the worst."

But he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it behind him, shoving his pants down until he's standing in the kitchen, totally naked, one hand stroking his dick. The only light in the room is the glow from the city below them; Stiles' skin looks almost reflective, and so, _so_ tempting.

Peter takes two steps into his space and, without a word, hauls him up and over his shoulder, gripping his bare ass to keep him in place as he heads for his bedroom.

Stiles laughs loudly, and slips his hands down the back of Peter's pants, his long fingers groping and stroking Peter's ass.

***

Somehow, when Peter wakes up Stiles is still there, taking up more than half the bed, their limbs tangled together and he can feel his wolf curled up, pleased and quiet. His heart stutters as Stiles rubs his sleepy face against Peter's shoulder and mumbles something. He has an urge to bite at the expanse of skin, a need for everyone to know who Stiles belongs too. He needs his mark to speak for him when he isn't there - _mine, mine, off limits._ Instead, he contents himself with licking at Stiles' collarbone and setting his mouth there to suck and nibble.

The bruise is mottled and purple, spreading out in the perfect shape of Peter's mouth. Stiles opens his eye and glares, pressing at it gingerly with the tips of his fingers.

"You're such a caveman."

"No, little human. I'm a wolf," he slides down to fit himself between Stiles' legs, pushing them up and backwards until he can see Stiles' hole. It's still loose from last night, and he slides a finger in, meeting only token resistance. He holds one leg out and open.

"You're gonna smell like me, you know. No matter how many showers you take, everyone will know who you belong to."

"So why the hickey then?" Stiles is panting and grinding down on Peter's finger.

"I have to make sure the humans know too, don't I?" Peter bares his teeth in semblance of a smile.

Stiles nods, his mouth hanging open, shining wet. Peter pulls his finger out of Stiles' hole and bends his knees until they are practically planted in his chest. Peter leans down and spits on Stiles' taint, rubbing it in with his hands.

"What the fuck?" Stiles faintly complains but his dick twitches, precome dripping onto his stomach.

Peter lines his cock up and slides it between Stiles' asscheeks and up until he's poking up underneath his balls. The saliva only lasts so long but his precome makes the slide a little smoother. He grinds his hips, letting the tip of his dick catch on Stiles' rim and then slides back up to the sensitive skin between his asshole and balls. Stiles is making delicious complaints beneath him, his face red and his cock dark and pulsing. He readjusts, letting Stiles' legs drop back down and leveraging himself over his torso. He props himself up with one hand and uses the other to scoop up the puddle on Stiles' stomach, using it to jerk them off together. He can't get his hand all the way around them, and it's not as tight as he'd like until Stiles reaches between them to help. They get into a push and pull rhythm until Peter comes across the head of Stiles' dick. Somewhere, dazedly and in the back of his mind, he feels the rush of Stiles' come over his fist as he quakes through his own aftershocks.

Peter collapses on top of him, mindless of the come sticking to both of them. Stiles lets out a pained noise and grumbles, but scratches a hand through Peter's hair, the other one stroking between his shoulders.

***

Stiles wakes and immediately decides he's never felt so sore, as he stretches his body gingerly and sits up. Light is gleaming behind heavy curtains across the windows and he can't be sure, but it feels like afternoon light. The way his stomach growls loudly into the silence confirms it for him. 

He stumbles into the adjoining bathroom and smirks at the amount of hair products gathered neatly on the counter. Everything in the room is either marble, or white porcelain. There's what can only be described as a tiny swimming pool taking up most of the room, and an enclosed shower in the opposite corner. 

He squints at himself in the mirror, sighing at his hair standing on end, and examines the bruises spread across his collar bone and hips. He's grateful that at least nothing will be visible with his clothes on. Scott gets protective and just doesn't get it. If he has to have an uncomfortable 'it feels good' conversation with his bro one more time he'll jump off the balcony instead.

Peter appears suddenly, reflected in the mirror, leaning against the doorframe, his massive arms crossed over his chest. Stiles flicks his tongue out to lick his dry lips and watches the way the muscles in Peter's arms flex with each tiny shift of his movements. 

"I've ordered food. I hope you like Thai?" Peter comes further in and runs his hands down Stiles' flanks, stopping to rest on his hips. Stiles groans when the pain drains out of him and tips his head back to rest on Peter's shoulder.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

"You're welcome. Would you like to take a bath?" he hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder, quietly watching their reflection. 

"No. I didn't bring my floaties. Too tired to swim." 

"There's a shower too," he nips gently behind Stiles' ear. "Go. I need a clean canvas to mark up later," he says, turning Stiles bodily towards the shower, and smacking him on the ass before leaving. 

***

Stiles swims in a borrowed t-shirt, the way it dips at the collar to reveal the ball of his shoulder and collarbone, still dark with Peter's teeth marks, has his wolf preening. They sit on the couch watching some ridiculous comic book movie, but he has no idea what's happening because Stiles absolutely will not stop talking. He's not even sure if Stiles is still talking about the movie that's on right now. 

They'd started out on opposite ends of the couch but Stiles had gradually scooted closer until his feet were tucked beneath Peter's thighs, and Peter now has a hand wrapped loosely around his ankle, rubbing a thumb in circles against it. 

They don't even have sex that night. Stiles falls asleep mid sentence and Peter carries him to the bedroom, tucking him between the new, clean sheets. He sits in the chair in the corner of the room and watches Stiles sleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, absorbing every detail; the way he mumbles even in his sleep, never totally quiet. His thick eyelashes rest against his cheek, fluttering every so often, and his hand is curled up against his face, resting on the pillow beside him.

Peter stays like that all night, just watching and trying not to think about what it means.


	4. Chapter 4

"No fucking way," Stiles half shouts into his phone. He shifts and tucks it between his shoulder and ear while he leans over to pull his shoes on. 

"Yes fucking way," Peter replies mildly. "It's the best bowling place in town. You can wear your own shoes instead of renting the disgusting used ones." 

"I can't believe you have opinions about bowling places," Stiles mumbles, scoops up his keys and waves at Scott and Isaac who are sprawled across the couch playing Call of Duty. "Even if they're wrong."

"I happen to be a connoisseur of everything. I believe you said the same thing about the coffee shop on Spring Street, and the Italian place on 5th. Oh wait...and yes...I do believe, _every_ other time we've had this conversation."

"What the fuck ever. I'll give you Gino's, but the coffee was only better at Hallowed Grounds because I let you blow me in the bathroom."

"You _let_ me? Must've been a real hardship. "

"Well, I'm a giver." 

"Yes, such a martyr. I wouldn't want you to do anything you didn't want. Maybe we'll have to take a break from it. If it's such a bother."

Stiles shudders as he thinks about coming down Peter's throat with two fingers tucked into his ass, trying not to moan too loudly. 

"No, no. I think I can handle it."

Peter just hums, but Stiles knows he's rolling his eyes in that full bodied way that he has.

"But anyway, you're wrong this time. And I'm gonna prove it to you." 

"Hmm? And what do I get when I win?"

"When? You won't, obviously."

"We'll see." 

Peter hangs up without a goodbye and Stiles tosses his phone into the cup holder grinning at their conversation. 

***

It's been months of fucking and hanging out at Peter's swanky apartment. Peter came to Stiles and Scott's once, but refused to even enter his bedroom. 

"You have a mattress on the floor," he'd hovered in the door frame with a frown. "You have posters taped to the wall." 

He'd said 'tape' like it was something particularly nasty, as though Stiles had used roadkill as decoration. 

"Uh, yeah," Stiles had looked between the bedroom and Peter's face, confused at the statement.

"Let's go," Peter had all but dragged Stiles out of the apartment.

They argue a lot. Mostly about dumb shit like who has the best cupcakes in Beacon Hills. (Stiles won that one 'cause it's obviously Sugar Mama's.) 

Their biggest argument is about Peter's past. Stiles just can't let it go, it isn't in his nature. Peter refuses to answer his about the tattoo on his neck, or why his wolf eyes are blue. Even after orgasms, if Stiles mentions them, or even traces the curved lines of the tattoo, Peter goes stiff and rolls out of bed without a word. It's honestly driving Stiles fucking crazy. Sometimes it's about how Peter gets angry for no reason and won't tell Stiles why. 

He's suspicious of Stiles' magic and doesn't like to be around if Stiles is using it. He claims it smells bad to him but he's cagey about it and his face is closed off, and even without werewolf hearing Stiles can tell that it's a poor excuse for something else. He also acts pissed that Stiles has a shitty bachelor pad, as though it offends him somehow. So they shout at each other a lot but it always ended in angry sex. Really angry, really good sex. And then Peter relaxes a little, but he still won't explain the problem.

He'll say something cryptic about Stiles deserving better and he always sounds guilty, like it's Peter's fault that Stiles is a lazy bum who couldn't care less about where he sleeps.

***

"I just don't get what you see in him," Scott's head tilts like a confused puppy.

"It's the sex, Scotty, my man. It's the filthy, filthy sex." 

Scott groans and covers his face. 

"I'll think it can't get better and that I've had the most mind blowing orgasm of my life, and then he'll do something totally new and I'll have another one that's even better than that one," Stiles almost moans in memory of his and Peter's latest sexual experimentation.

"Stop, please."

"Hey, you asked."

"So if it's just about the sex, then why are you dating him?" Isaac joins the conversation, stealing one of Stiles' curly fries. 

Stiles laughs mid-drink and ends up with Coke up his nose. 

"What the fuck, dude?! Give a guy some warning!" Stiles snorts.

Isaac just raises an eyebrow at him, his face completely serious. Scott has the same dubious expression and Stiles splutters at them both, unable to believe they might be a little bit serious. 

"I am _not_ dating Peter fucking Hale. We're fucking. That's all."

"You went and saw the new Spider-Man movie with him," Scott points out. "Without me." 

"And I apologized! You and I can go, the new guy playing Spider-Man is really hot. I'll see it twice." 

Isaac and Scott exchange glances and sigh. 

"What?"

"You've gone out to eat with him and spent the night at his house almost every night," Isaac holds up long fingers and counts his points off. "You Instagrammed photo booth pictures of you two kissing. With tongues. Which, gross, by the way."

"You skipped bro time last week to have pizza with him instead," Scott adds, oh so helpfully.

"That's only because he insisted that East Side Pies is the best pie in town, when everyone knows it's HomeSlice," Stiles snorts at the ridiculousness.

"Dude. Is everything a competetion?" Scott squints at him.

"Um...no....yes. So what?" Stiles crosses his arm and slips down in the booth.

"Oh my God! Peter's been stealth dating you for like, three months now!" Isaac shouts, his face positively gleeful at Stiles' perceived stupidity. 

"What? No he hasn't." 

Scott just tilts his head at him again, waiting for Stiles to process. 

"Oh my God. Peter's been stealth dating me," Stiles smacks his forehead and blinks at his friends, eyes as wide as they'll go.

Scott looks sympathetic, but Isaac is laughing his stupid, angelic little head off. Stiles throws the remaining fries at his head and drops his own to rest on the table, entirely unable to face the reality of the situation. 

***

Stiles lets himself in with his own key that Peter had presented him with a month ago, shaking his head at his own obliviousness as he looks down at it. Peter is reclined on his couch, reading some impossible tomb, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. 

Stiles stares for a minute until Peter looks up with a raised eyebrow. Stiles can feel his heart beating faster. He'd been dating this guy, a dangerous werewolf, for three months apparently, and he'd had no idea. He feels stupid, but also there's a flutter of excitement in his chest. He flops onto the couch and puts his feet in Peter's lap, dislodging his book.

"Feet."

Peter growls lightly and looks down. "Yes. Those are feet. Clever boy."

"Feeeeeeet," Stiles nudges them against Peter's thighs.

"Oh, whining. What a surprise."

Stiles lifts his head up and glares in response.

"Fine," Peter sighs, "I do love your dirty little bare feet," he sets his book aside and starts rubbing Stiles' feet, pressing a thumb into the ball of them. Stiles lets out a groan and sinks further into the couch.

After a few minutes of silence, he can't stand it any more and he sits up, pulling his feet back and crossing his legs. 

"Are we dating?" 

Peter narrows his eyes. "What would bring you to that conclusion?"

"Well, I just...it seems like we're dating," Stiles shrugs.

"Correction, it seems like we're fucking." 

"Okay, but we do more than that. I have a key, and a drawer, and you buy my favorite ice cream even though you said it tastes like ass."

"I never said it tastes like ass." 

Stiles scoots closer. 

"Not the point." 

Peter sighs loudly and cracks his neck. "Do you want to date?" 

"I..." Stiles closes his mouth, and looks down at his hands. "I think so," he mumbles.

"Well, I think you should tone down the enthusiasm," Peter snarls. "I'm not interested in dating a child who doesn't even know what they want, Stiles."

"You don't scare me," Stiles holds his ground.

"Yes I do, I can hear you lie remember."

"Okay, fine. You scare me. But not because of your wolfiness," Stiles chews on his lip and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it to rest on the back of his neck. "You scare me because...God, this is so fucking lame."

"Tell me anyway," Peter demands.

"Because I wanna be with you. And I don't know anything about you, and I don't know if you want to be with me, and I just...I really lo...like you. I just don't want to get hurt."

Stiles holds his breath and tries not to fidget. Peter's silent for so long that Stiles thinks about just leaving; grabbing his bag and what's left of his dignity, and running out of there.

Peter tilts his head and purses his lips as though he's examining Stiles, his eyes searing into Stiles'. He nods slowly and a smile curves across his face.

"Yeah. Let's 'date'," he says it so casually, like he's suggesting they get pizza for dinner. 

All of Stiles breath leaves him in a whoosh and he smacks Peter in the arm. "I can hear the fucking air quotes, you asshole." 

Peter just laughs and drags him over until Stiles is in his lap, straddling his hips. His hands rest on Stiles' narrow hips and hold him still.

"So this means just us, okay? I don't share," Stiles leans back to wave his finger in Peter's face. Peter just smirks and snaps his teeth together, pretending to bite at it.

"No sharing," Peter kisses him hard and claiming, before standing up, bringing Stiles with him. Stiles flails a little before wrapping his legs around Peter's waist and his arms around that huge neck.

"To the bedroom. Mush mush," Stiles kicks his heels gently into Peter's back and laughs when he growls and pretends to drop him.

"Can't drop me. Cause we're daaating," he sing songs and Peter shuts him up with another kiss.

***

"What's this?" Peter comes into the living room holding up a pillow like its insulted him. The pillowcase is a Captain America shield and Stiles grins, looking up from his book. 

"My pillow. Can't sleep without my pillow."

"It's...bright."

Stiles just hums, looking back to his books. 

"Can I at least change the pillowcase?" Peter fwaps him lightly with the offending object. 

"What?! No fucking way, dude. That'd mess with the juju."

"The juju..." 

"You know, one day your eyes are gonna roll so far they're just gonna fall out, and I'm not picking them up," Stiles snatches the pillow from him and hugs it to his chest. 

Peter raises an eyebrow, one side of his mouth curled up in a smirk.

"I know it might clash with the really classy grey on black thing you got going on here, but so do I," Stiles spreads one hand in a flourish.

"You don't clash. You fit right in," Peter moves into his space and grips the back of his neck, giving it a little shake. "Don't talk about yourself like that."

"Awwwww, he cares," Stiles coos and drops the pillow to cup both hands around Peter's face.

"No, of course not," Peter scoffs, "Your low self esteem just makes the place smell bad," he scowls when Stiles just laughs and kisses him. 

"I don't even need to be a werewolf to hear your lies." 

Peter rolls his eyes and smacks him with the pillow again. 

***

Peter gets home to find Stiles passed out and sprawled across the whole bed, clutching at that God awful pillow. Dressed in another borrowed shirt, he makes Peter's mouth water and his cock twitch. He decides not to wake him up though; he's been working on a spell with Deaton for a month and a half and probably needs the rest. It's a protection spell, because that's what Stiles is best at, and packs from all over come to ask for his help. He always gives it whether it wears him out or not. 

Peter admires that selfless, giving quality, even if he doesn't actually understand it. He mostly just hates that it takes time away from them being together. Stiles always makes it up to him in the most creative ways though, so he supposes it isn't too terrible. 

He pulls off his boots and leaves them where they drops, before pouring two fingers worth of wolfsbane infused Glenfidditch. He sips it, letting the heat pool in his mouth before swallowing it down. By the time he's finished and contemplating a second glass, Stiles is shuffling out of the bedroom rubbing at his eyes.

"Hey," he mumbles, voice quiet and sleep rough.

"Hello, my sweet." 

Stiles is too tired to fully protest the stupid endearment, only giving a half hearted grumble. He slides into Peter's lap and leans back to rest his head on Peter's shoulder. 

"I can feel your heart beating," Stiles wiggles his back against Peter's chest and he growls in response. "I can feel that too. S'like you're vibrating." 

"I can _hear_ your heart." 

"Yeah, yeah, wolfy powers win." 

Peter ghosts a hand across Stiles' knee and kisses his ear, nibbling a little. His hand trails up the inside of his thigh, the skin soft and he stops to pet it for a minute sipping his drink. He almost spits out his drink when his hand slides up fully to find Stiles' bare beneath the shirt, his cock already a little chubbed up when Peter's fingers brush against it. 

Stiles lets his legs fall open to either side of Peter's and reaches an arm up to drape over the back of Peter's neck to pet his hair. Peter sets his glass on the side table, scooting it in to make sure it doesn't get knocked off the edge when things get a little more heated. 

"What's this?" he hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder so he can get a good view. Sliding the shirt up, he holds it bunched in one hand to see that Stiles' dick is now hard and pressed against his stomach, his hips wiggling impatiently against Peter's.

Peter releases the shirt and grasps Stiles by the back of the neck, tilting his head to the side to lick up the side of his neck. "Were you waiting for daddy? All alone and wanting me to fill you up."

"Ugh. You're not...my...not my daddy," Stiles pants out, his palms pressed against Peter's thighs, trying to get enough leverage to grind. Spreading his legs further, he pushes Stiles' wider and throws him off balance. 

"So you don't want your daddy's cock?" 

Stiles' cock twitches and a drop of precome puddles against his stomach. Peter flicks out one claw and traces gently along the prominent vein as Stiles arches hopefully into the touch. 

"I've been waiting all night. Please fuck me." 

"Mmmm. I think that can be arranged. Bend over, kitten."

Stiles rearranges his legs so he can fold himself in half, his hands on the ground and his ass in the air. Peter makes a helpless sound when he sees that his hole is slick around the edges and already filled with a butt plug. He bites his fist to stop himself from moaning, and lets out a shaky breath, tapping the plug once and grinning when Stiles shivers and moans. 

He slides his hands down Stiles' back pushing the shirt up toward his head. 

"You prepared for me. You're such a little cockslut, Stiles." 

"Shut up and fuck me," his voice is muffled from how he's bent, which makes Peter laugh. 

"Isn't that what you wanted? Why you got prepared. Did you think of me while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"

Stiles wiggles his ass in the air and pants. Peter can feel it through his skin, the way his ribcage bellows in and out. He keeps one hand pressing lightly against the plug and leans back a little to unzip his jeans and pull his cock out. It strains forward and he lets it smack against Stiles' ass. 

"Lube?" 

Stiles gestures toward the end table, rolling his hips down to seek friction. 

Peter growls at the lube bottle; it's brand new and the seal won't come off until he uses his claws to just punch a hole in it, catching the oozing liquid in his hand before dropping the ruined bottle on the floor. He slicks his dick up and rests one sticky hand against Stiles' lower back, scooting himself forward. He almost forgets to remove the plug and ends up yanking it out too fast, causing Stiles to let out a sob. Peter shushes him, rubbing his hand across Stiles' ass.

Stiles must've prepared himself heavily, because Peter's able to slide in with one slick movement. The squelch of lube and the sound of his balls slapping against Stiles' own is loud over their harsh breathing. He slides back out a little, not able to get much of a rhythm in this position. He grinds up a little, listening to Stiles' muttered curses when he won't let up off his prostate. 

Peter gets impatient, he's like that, and hauls Stiles back up against his chest, sliding hands beneath his thighs, lifting him enough that he can pound in and out relentlessly. Stiles' moans are almost continuous; he has one hand cluching Peter's bicep for balance and the other fisting his own cock, letting the momentum of Peter's hard thrusts push it up. When he orgasms, it makes his ass clench like a vice grip, and Peter isn't sure he can breathe anymore, much less move when his orgasm is pulled out of him, slamming in one more time before stilling. Feeling his knot growing, he bites down gently with his human teeth on Stiles' shoulder and pinches his nipples. 

"Oh fuck, ohhhhh fuck! I think I'm..." Stiles grinds his hips on the knot a couple more times and comes again with a strangled shout. 

He goes limp and allows Peter to rearrange them in the chair. 

"I guess you're stuck with me," Stiles mumbles, utterly come drunk.

"Oh yeah, poor me," Peter snarks, petting at Stiles' sweaty hair, chest, and arms, just scenting him all over.

"Possessive creeperwolf," Stiles slurs, his head suddenly heavy against Peter's shoulder. He can only see a little of Stiles' profile but his eyes are fluttering shut. 

"Stiles?" he nudges him. 

"No. Sleep. You'll take care of me," Stiles pats his face with a floppy hand.

"Yeah, course I will," he wraps his arms around Stiles' waist, unmindful of the come on his stomach, and presses him even closer. "You're mine."

Luckily for Peter, and his sanity, Stiles has already fallen asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since we are three days late for updating. Here's three chapters at once!

They don't do anything as domestic as make love (or slowbone, as Stiles insists on calling it, despite Peter's protests.) But the closer it gets to the full moon, the more intense their fucking becomes. Peter allows himself to slow down and cradle Stiles against him, needing to touch and lick; make sure Stiles is marked as his. Make sure everyone knows it. Stiles teases him and grumbles about having to wear scarves in July, but he always tilts his neck back to make room for Peter's teeth. He slips in and out of Stiles' slowly, but still pounding hard. Stiles is a boneless mess beneath his hands. Peter thinks about how close can he get; he could shift and crack Stiles' ribs open spilling all of his warm insides out, his fragile heart beneath his claws. He scratches lightly over the spot where he can hear it best and presses until Stiles wiggles away with a hiss. 

His thoughts get muddled and he decides he likes Stiles better this way, squirmy and mouthy. All his organs inside him, protected by his fragile skin. He shakes just thinking how easy Stiles could be hurt. He has to protect his mate, knot him, and breed him. No one else can touch him. 

"I love you," he lisps out between his fangs and Stiles stills his hips, staring up at Peter with wide amber eyes, a breath held in his chest until he exhales in a whoosh, nodding at Peter's declaration. 

Peter keeps repeating it, licking and biting at all the skin he can reach until Stiles comes with a sharp cry. He remains limp for a minute, his eyes closed peacefully, until Peter whines and noses at his neck. He blinks his eyes open and smiles sleepily up at Peter.

"I think you just fucked me into a blackout." 

Peter smiles around his fangs and speeds up, slamming in and watching Stiles' whole body jerk with each thrust until he's coming and his knot is swelling in Stiles' hole.

He continues to pet a dozing Stiles whilst he's knotted, his mind repeating the same words over and over until he follows Stiles into sleep; _minemineminemateminemate._

***

Peter wakes up thoroughly fucking horrified. He'd made a love confession to a human. A human from another pack. During sex. Like he's some kind of sex addled teenager. He sits up and attempts to clear his head. Tonight's the full moon and his wolf doesn't understand embarrassment. It just wants to curl back up with its mate and sleep some more. Maybe even mate again before the pack meets up to run.

Peter looks at Stiles spread out on his stomach, his round little ass an irresistible invitation. He runs a hand down the boy's spine, lingering where it dips and continually down the slope of his ass. _minemineminematemate_

Shaking his head, he pulls back abruptly. This wasn't the plan, he wasn't supposed to mate with this boy. He couldn't trust Stiles with this. He couldn't trust _anyone_ with this. Moving quietly around the room to get dressed, he resists the urge to wake up Stiles to say goodbye, and leaves as quickly as possible. He needs to go out to the preserve early and let his wolf out, clear his head of this nonsense. 

***

Stiles hasn't heard from Peter for a week. It takes him a few days to notice, since he's busy himself, but after the third day without even so much as a text, he's a little worried. He isn't able to get away from his current project, the spell being time sensitive, but he's called and left far too many voicemails. Erica had assured him yesterday that Peter is alive and well, but she refused to say anything else or look Stiles in the eye. 

The minute the spell is finished, he runs out of the clinic, hollering a goodbye to Deaton. He decides to try the bar first since it's the middle of the day. Before his eyes can adjust to the darkness inside, a bored voice informs him that they're closed, _can't you fucking read?_

He blinks, eyes focusing on Cora leaning over the bar. "Oh, it's you." 

"Is Peter here?"

"Yeah, he's in the back," her mouth curves into a smirk and she gestures him toward the employee entrance. 

He raises an eyebrow at her and shoves his hands in his pockets, before bracing himself and pushing through the swinging door with his shoulder. 

Peter is sitting in his cramped office, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of him.

"Hey," Stiles smiles.

"Hello, Emissary Stilinski," Peter looks as though he's in pain, his hands clenching and unclenching on the desk.

"Um...hello Second Peter," Stiles laughs a little, confused.

"Are you here to discuss the visiting pack?" Peter takes a deep breath, his eyes glazed over, before he shakes himself and hastily sips at his coffee. 

"Uhh, no," Stiles goes around the side of the desk and perches on the edge, his heart sinking when Peter rolls his chair further away from him. "I'm here to _discuss_ our relationship."

"I wouldn't call what we have a _relationship,_ per se," Peter examines his nails.

"Yes, you would. We talked about it. Don't try and fucking gaslight me, Peter. We had this conversation already," Stiles sighs, bored of Peter's antics.

"You must be mistaken. The only relationship you have is with my dick."

Stiles inhales sharply, hating that it sounds like a gasp. "What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm quite busy though, if you'll see yourself out." 

"I'm not fucking going anywhere until you explain. Is this about the 'I love you' thing? You don't have to be embarrassed by it. No one believes stuff like that during sex. Don't be such a drama queen."

"It's nice to know my love confessions mean so little to you."

"That's not what I mean. I just...if it's bothering you then we can forget it ever happened. You can tell me when you're ready. When your dick isn't in my ass," Stiles barely suppresses an eye roll at Peter's stupidity.

"Well there's no danger of that, because we aren't together. Do I have to spell it out for you? I was under the impression you're smarter than that. I'm a little disappointed, really," Peter's tone is colder than he's ever heard it, and he can tell he's not going to get anywhere with this conversation.

"Fuck you," Stiles spits, standing up abruptly.

"Gladly. But only if you promise not to confuse it with a relationship again," Peter waves a finger at Stiles with a vicious smile.

"Oh my fucking God! I should've fucking known!"

Stiles shoves at him, stomping out and slamming the flimsy door behind him. It's only mildly satisfying, and he wishes he could slam Peter's head in it.

***

Peter winces at the door slamming shut and slumps in his chair, running a hand over his face, trying to get the smell of Stiles out of his nose. He'd smelled so good when he first walked in, but now it's tinged with fury and misery, and his wolf whines at the thought of him upsetting his mate. But Peter resists the urge to go after him, knowing it'll do no good in the end.

A few minutes later the door opens and his sister's dark head pokes in.

"Is everything alright?"

"No."

"What have you done?" 

"Why do you assume it was me, sweet sister?" Peter snarks, shuffling papers around aimlessly.

Talia fixes him with a stare and a raised eyebrow. 

"Nothing for you to worry about. The only one I'm hurting is myself."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," she steps closer and squeezes his shoulder tightly before disappearing again. 

***

Stiles can't sleep because his fucking pillow is at Peter's, and he might be a little sleep deprived and a lot drunk when he shows up at the bar. Scott's working late at the brewery, and Isaac is a filthy enabler who cheerfully drives him over there. 

Isaac stands behind him, hands out as though poised to catch him if he falls. He fights his way through the crowd spilling out the door and sails right past the bouncer. He's inside and scanning the room for Peter when Cora accosts him.

"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin?" she slips an arm through his and guides him toward the back where the pool tables are. "Wanna play a game?"

Stiles wiggles out of her grip. "No I'm looking for Peter."

"I'm pretty sure he's not here. Come on, play a game with me," she smiles at him. It's a little forced, which is enough to raise Stiles' suspicions.

"Why are you being so nice?" Stiles squints, swaying into her space.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cora asks flatly.

"You're never nice. You're scary, and beautiful, and scary," he waves his hands at her as if to encompass all her scary beautifulness.

"I am, aren't I?" Cora flips her hair back and smirks, reminding him a little of Lydia. They'd be really scary and beautiful together. 

He follows the movement of her hand and out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of Peter. He's staring at Stiles from across the bar, his mouth a flat line and his eyes gleaming blue. There's a woman with him, and the crowd is thick, but Stiles is almost positive she has her hands down the front of his pants in front of everyone. Peter looks bored, and for a minute there's a feeling of triumph, because he never looks bored with Stiles' hands around his dick. Then Peter smirks and makes a point to look away from him, turning toward the woman and giving Stiles his back. 

His stomach does a slow flip flop and his insides feel jittery. He stumbles back a step right into Isaac who clutches at him. Cora's eyes are wide in shock and she pushes them both toward the exit. 

"What?" Stiles' ears are ringing, and his hands are shaking, as Cora and Isaac frog march him to Isaac's car, shoving him into the passenger seat. Isaac protects his head and Stiles mumbles something about getting arrested again. Isaac glances at him with a guilty frown as Cora leans against the car and talks to him.

"I was hoping he wouldn't see that. Peter has been gross and slutty since they broke up," she pauses. "...Grosser and sluttier." 

She leans into the car. "For what it's worth Stilinski, I thought you were good for him. He seemed...better," she muses.

She pats his cheek and closes the door gently, making sure all his limbs are safely tucked out of the way. Everything seems soft and fuzzy on the drive home, and he feels a dull pain beneath the numbness but he tries his best to ignore it. 

***

Back home, Isaac tries to take the bottle of vodka from Stiles, but Stiles won't give it up without a fight. They both know that Isaac can easily overpower him, but he honestly looks a little scared of Stiles when he bares his teeth. 

"Fine," Isaac lets go of the bottle so abruptly that Stiles stumbles backwards onto the couch. He's not sure how long he lies there, watching the room spin lazily before Scott is rushing him.

"Why the fuck did you take him there?!" he thinks Scott is talking to him for a confusing second.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think it'd be this bad. I thought they'd make up or whatever they do. I don't pretend to understand their relationship,"Isaac gives a helpless shrug.

"Hey! Scotty! My bestest best friend bro!" Stiles sing songs from his position slumped on the couch.

"Hey, Stiles. How are you, man?" Scott sits on the opposite side and pats him.

"I'm going to be honest...I'm drunk," he giggles, spilling vodka on himself before Scott pulls it out of his hands. "Hey! Not cool."

"You can have more later. Right now, I need to you to drink some water and lie down."

"But I can't sleep 'cause my pillow," he whines.

"Okay, how about I lie down with you? We can have a puppy pile, just you and me. Doesn't that sound good?"

Stiles nods slowly and hiccups. 

Even with two werewolves involved, it takes a lot of effort to get a fully grown, drunk man into his bed. Scott pulls off his shoes and laughs when Stiles makes lazy grabby hands at him, before sliding into the bed, and lying on his back beside him. 

"I love your cuddles. Brotonic cuddles. Get it? 'Cause we're bros and we do platonic cuddles? Get it?"

Scott sighs heavily, but he's smiling. "Yeah, I get it. I can never understand how you can use words like platonic even when you're totally smashed."

Stiles closes his eyes and smiles, baring all his teeth. "'Cause I'm smart, Scotty." 

"Yeah, you are, except for when it comes to your heart," Scott brushes some of his hair off his face, and Stiles starts sinking until everything blacks out and he finally falls asleep.

***

Peter knows that Stiles can't sleep without his pillow, so really, he's just doing him a favor. Just being a good friend, that's all. The kind of friend who waits until everyone has left and jimmies the lock open on his friend's apartment door. He clutches the pillow under his arm, ready as an excuse if someone walks in on him.

He makes a beeline to Stiles' room. It's still decorated in early frat boy but it smells overwhelmingly of Stiles and it's immediately soothing to him. He stands in the middle of the room, his claws pricking holes in the pillow and takes deep lungfuls of air. For the first time in a month he feels calm, the smell of his mate filling his lungs and calming his wolf. He leans over to put the pillow on the foot of the bed and catches the overwhelming scent of Scott and Stiles combined. He lets out a growl without even realizing, whining low in his throat at the idea of them together.

He's never claimed to have any kind of moral compass, and he knows he has very little dignity when it comes to Stiles. He also knows he's pathetic, but he's owning it, okay? So he gives into the urge and plants himself face down on the messy bed, rolling around in it, running his hands along the extra pillows and sliding beneath the sheets to make sure the whole bed smells like him. He considers jerking off, but he has to have a the line that he won't cross, thin as it may be.

The bonus is that he gets even more of Stiles' scent to inhale, savoring it and trying to hold it in his chest for later when he's alone.

He finally makes himself stand and back out of the room; if he doesn't go now he'll probably never leave and then he'll have to admit that he's helpless to some fucking human. Peter isn't going to let that happen, mate or not.

Not an hour later he gets a not altogether unexpected text message from Talia.

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_

***

The second they walk in the door, Scott wolfs out and shoves Stiles behind him, knocking him into the doorknob. 

"Hey, man! That fucking hurt," he rubs his hip with a frown, following his best friend to his room. Scott's standing in the middle of the room, huffing and scenting the air, his claws out and ready to attack. 

The only thing out of place is Stiles' bed. It's made neatly and his pillow is placed just so in the middle. Stiles never makes his bed. 

"Peter," he breathes out, before Scott can say anything. 

Scott growls and declaws before tugging his cell phone out. He's back to normal now, except for his eyes still glowing red as he pats Stiles on the shoulder, holding the phone up to his ear.

"He won't get away with this, buddy," Scott goes out into the hall, using his best alpha voice as he asks to speak to Alpha Hale. Stiles can't help but smile at how serious he sounds.

He tries to be as outraged as Scott, but he has missed his pillow, and he kind of wants to fall face first into his bed and see if he can actually smell Peter. He checks that Scott is still on the phone and does exactly that, discovering that his pillow smells like Peter's cologne and hair gel. He wishes for a minute that he had wolfy senses so he could actually absorb just how much it smells like Peter. He sniffles and cuddles his pillow, feeling a little pathetic, but not enough to let it stop him.

Scott comes back in, calmer now, but with a grim set to his mouth that doesn't suit him at all. 

"Hey, man, it's fine. He was just returning my pillow," he waves it weakly at Scott.

Scott perches on the edge of the bed beside Stiles' feet. 

"It's not fine, Stiles. He can't think it's okay to come into another pack's den without permission." 

Stiles giggle-snorts. "I didn't know our shitty apartment had been upgraded to a den."

"You know what I mean," Scott sighs heavily through his nose.

"You know what's the worst? I think he's ruined me for regular sex. It's all werewolf, all the time now on the Stiles channel," he hauls himself up and leans against the wall, picking at a hole in his jeans.

"It couldn't have been that great, dude," Scott looks pained at the idea of having this conversation. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"You know I've listened to hours of sexy times breakdowns in your love life, man." 

"I know. You're right. Lay it on me," he visibly braces himself.

"You don't have to look like you're about to be tickled with wolfsbane," Stiles laughs.

"I'm sorry. But really, tell me. Why's he ruined you for humans?" Scott nods too many times, a clear sign that he's uncomfortable, and waits. 

"Well, you know. I mean...human guys can't knot me. And dude, why didn't you tell me about that part? Because you were really holding..."

"Stiles, stop," Scott holds up a hand, his eyes wide. 

"Seriously? Two whole sentences and you can't handle it? Do I need to remind you that I know way, _way_ too much about Allison's down there business? Like, if she knew how much I know, she'd kill me. And then you. With her bare hands."

"No, dude. It's not that. Peter knotted you?"

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, a lotta times. He said it isn't a big deal." 

"Stiles..." Scott's brown eyes are even wider now, and he looks sad to go with it. "Knotting _is_ a big deal. It's not something you just do. I mean, I've only ever done it with Allison."

"What?"

"Yeah, not even Kira. Not that I don't love her," he looks around, panicked.

"She's not here, man," Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Of course. Yeah. Totally not here," he nods, glancing out the door one more time.

"So it's a..." he's not sure he can say it out loud. "...a mates thing?"

Scott nods and reaches out to grasp Stiles' knee. 

He already feels like shit. His heart already feels totally broken. But now it feels like everything is a million times worse, his heart cracking further and all his control slipping away, like the yolk from an egg.

"So, now I know. I'm not even good enough for my mate. Wow. That's really fucked up."

"No, that's not what I mean at all. Peter's a dick. Seriously."

Stiles heaves a sigh and slides back down to lie on his bed, head on his pillow. "Can you just leave me alone for a little bit?"

Scott nods and stands, shuffling his feet, looking torn about leaving Stiles. "Come on, man. You're awesome. Don't let this get you down."

"Yeah, I'll try," he gives a watery smile. "I just need a little bit of time. Please."

"Alright. But I'll be here if you need me. Okay?"

"Yeah Scotty, I'll shout."

Scott backs out and shuts the door gingerly, as though it's an explosive of some kind. Once alone, Stiles lets himself go, crying into his stupid pillow, trying to be as quiet as he can with a werewolf next door. 

He's probably not fooling anyone but he's trying to preserve at least some semblance of dignity, so he muffles his sobs and bites his lip until he wears himself out enough to fall asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles rubs his hands across his face and jumps up and down a few times, attempting to wake himself up. It's been a week since he got his pillow back, and he still can't sleep. He has a sneaking suspicion that it's thanks to not being beside Peter for at least half the week, but he does his best not to think about it at all. Which he considers quite a feat, since he has six to eight extra hours of staring at his ceiling to fill with anything but thoughts of Peter.

Isaac and Lydia have both told him he looks like shit this morning, because they're such good friends. Deaton had just made a face, which was probably enigmatic Deaton for 'you look like shit,' but hadn't actually said anything. 

He's waiting for the bus, because he's pretty sure he shouldn't be driving in this state, swaying on his feet, when his phone buzzes. He slides it out of his pocket and thumbs over it, his breath catching in his throat.

It's a text from Peter. All it says is 'come over.' No 'please,' or explanation. He stares at his phone, his thumb hovering over the delete button, until the bus pulling up makes him jump. 

"You getting on, honey?" the driver asks, smiling tiredly at him.

"Uhhh, no, I'm not. Thanks," he stumbles back and turns toward Peter's apartment. It's only a fifteen minute walk and he knows if he doesn't go that he'll beat himself up about it and it's not like he's going to be able to go home and sleep now. 

He hesitates, not sure if he should still use the key he has. He decides that it's too pathetic, even creepy, knocks twice. Besides, he likes having it and he doesn't want to call Peter's attention to the fact he still has it. The door swings open to show Peter standing there, his eyes flashing momentarily blue in the darkness before he drags Stiles in by the front of his shirt.

"When's the last time you slept?" Peter lets go of his shirt and shuts the door behind him.

"That's none of your business," Stiles fills his chest with air, in an attempt at defiance, and crosses his arms.

"You smell like it's been weeks." 

Stiles shrugs and looks away. He wants to ask what he's doing here but he can't make himself say the words, terrified the reply will be a variation on _'here's your shit, give me my key, fuck off.'_

"Come on," Peter's voice is uncharacteristically soft, and when he grabs Stiles' hand, it's with a gentle tug. All the lights in the apartment are off, and the glittering of downtown Beacons Hills creates stark shadows across the room.

Peter strips him of his shirt without a word and Stiles is too confused and tired to protest, even when Peter unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down. He pushes Stiles gently until he's lying on the bottom edge of the bed, his arms spread out and bouncing gently. Peter kneels on one knee, untying Stiles' shoes before pulling the jeans off the rest of the way. 

The bed is soft and familiar, and Stiles can feel his eyes slipping closed, forgetting that he isn't supposed to be here. That he doesn't belong here anymore. Peter manhandles him until he's lying in the right place, beneath the sheets, before slipping in beside him.

"Sexy times?" Stiles mumbles, petting at the swell of Peter's bicep.

"Later, kitten," he moved Stiles around some more until he's tucked in with his back to Peter's chest. 

"Everyone likes being the little spoon," he sighs, and feels content at the vibration of Peter's laughter.

He's almost asleep when a thought strikes him. 

"Huh. I guess it wasn't my pillow after all. I just needed you to sleep," he pats Peter's hand clasped over his stomach.

"Go to sleep, Stiles." 

Peter's voice sounds strange, and his arm tenses, but it's too much to think about when he's so comfortable and so, so tired. 

***

He wakes up to Peter's mouth on him and in that moment everything else feels like a dream. He's where he wants to be, and nothing bad can happen when he's getting his brains sucked out through his dick.

It really doesn't take long before he's coming, it's been a while, and Peter swallows every drop, humming his pleasure. He leans up on one hand, before Stiles has even recovered, and comes all over Stiles' stomach and chest and rubs it in, still happily humming to himself. 

"Ugh. Creeperwolf," he smiles lazily, dozing off again. Sleep is his favorite thing, with Peter maybe coming a close second, he decides when he wakes up next.

He's alone, but he can hear Peter banging around the kitchen, so he stretches and slips his briefs back on, shuffling out the door with a yawn.

Peter's back is mostly turned to him, but Stiles can just make out that he's squinting at the empty frying pan.

"Hey," Stiles fails to stifle his smile.

"That was a mistake."

It feels like a physical blow and he stumbles back a little as he comes to an abrupt halt.

"I should've fucking known," Stiles growls. 

He stomps into the bedroom, hopping to pull on his jeans and grab his shirt at the same time. He gets tangled in the sleeves for a second, and when his head pops free Peter is standing in the doorway with a blank expression.

"I'm sorry."

"Shut the fuck up," Stiles points at him, still trying to find his stupid shoes.

"You have to take care of yourself, Stiles. You have to sleep and eat," Stiles thinks he almost sounds convincing in his concern. 

"I can't fucking believe you. Hey, guess what? You don't get a say anymore. You forfeited that right when you broke up with me. No. Wait. You never actually did that. You were too much of a fucking coward to do that. And now this!" he sweeps his hands in Peter's direction.

He thinks for a second about just leaving the apartment barefoot, until he spies his shoes peaking out from under the dust ruffle. 

"You don't understand."

"You're damn right I don't," he doesn't want to sit down on the bed again, so he just slams his foot into the toe, stepping down on the heel so he can just leave already. He can feel his magic coiling in his stomach and he's scared that if he doesn't get the fuck out of here he'll do something stupid with it.

Peter moves out of his way and doesn't say anything, trailing silently after him to the living room.

Stiles snatches up his bag, slipping it over his head and digs in the side pocket for his keys. With shaking hands he slips a nail into the keyring and starts wiggling Peter's key off.

"You can't treat yourself this way, Stiles." 

"What about you?" he shouts. "Why do _you_ get to treat me this way?!" 

He tosses the key onto the side table and watches as it skids off onto the carpet.

"Please don't call me again," he whispers, before jerking the door open and bursting out into the hallway. He doesn't bother shutting it behind him, and to his utter relief the elevator is standing open, its passengers dispersing as he slides in. 

 

He makes it two floors before he starts crying again.


	7. Chapter 7

"As embarrassing as you've been lately, I still need you there as my second, little brother."

Peter growls, but continues to lean into his alpha as she scratches behind his ears. 

"That means you have to change back." 

He growls louder and Talia sighs.

"I know this is hard. This isn't an ideal time for ritual or ..." she pauses, pursing her lips, "...reunions."

Peter gives a snort. 

He'd already been in a miserable place. Having Stiles back even for a moment had been a ridiculous mistake because it'd felt so right. He'd felt whole again and then all he'd done with it was screw it up. Again.

Now _she_ has shown up with the visiting pack, and for the first time since he was a teenager he has absolutely no control over his shift. One whiff of his ex wife and he folds in on himself, hiding under the bed in Talia's guest room. He's found one of Stiles' balled up socks amongst the dust bunnies and has tucked it between his paws, resting his head on it. He stays there until Talia finds him and tells him everyone has left.

"She said she wanted to come and talk to you before the meeting. Which is surprisingly considerate, for her anyway. Maybe she's changed." 

Peter snorts again, standing and shaking her hand off before presenting his back to her. 

"Such a drama queen. " 

Talia pats him fondly before she stands and leaves him alone again. She leaves the door open a crack so he can get in and out.

***

"You smell."

Stiles furrows his brow at the woman who's sidled up next to his Jeep out of nowhere.

"Just what I need. To be insulted by an attractive stranger," Stiles grimaces at her and turns back to watching the pump.

"You think I'm attractive?" she flips her straight, shiny, black hair over her shoulder.

"Can I help you?" Stiles sighs loudly and pointedly.

"Probably not. Maybe. You smell like magic and werewolves," she flashes her golden eyes at him. "You must be Emissary Stilinksi?" 

"Yeah, that's me. Look, not to be rude, but I'm tired and I don't usually conduct business in gas station parking lots," he fishes a business card out of his wallet and holds it out, scissored between two fingers.

She extends a well manicured hand and takes it from him, squinting at it in the orange light. "Business, huh?" 

"Yeah...isn't that why you're here?" 

The pump clicks and he pulls out the handle, turning to push it back in its place, turning the cap at the same time, and doing his best to avoid looking at the woman.

"Oh, no. Not that kind of business. I'm with the Kriminell pack. Here to parlay with the Hales. Are you part of their pack, you smell like it?" she's full of annoying observations and questions. 

Stiles sighs, it's been two months and he still smells like Hale. He's going to go home and rub his whole face and body all over Scott or Isaac. Or both.

"No. I'm part of the McCall pack. We're just allies of the Hales."

"Smells like very...close allies," she licks her teeth and looks around absently. 

"Wow, you're rude. And I'm tired. So it was nice to meet you...." Stiles belatedly realizes she never told him her name.

"Amelia," she holds out her hand and Stiles shakes it.

"Right. Well, have fun with that whole telling-people-they-smell thing. Hope it works out for you," he climbs into the Jeep and drives away, wondering what his life would be like if he didn't know a single werewolves. 

Very dull, he imagines.

***

The meeting takes place in the Hales' backyard two days before the full moon. They've set up a platform with two chairs of equal heights for each alpha. Equal heights until Peter had snuck down the night before and shaved off a few centimeters of the Kriminell alpha's chair. Nothing noticeable really, but it makes him feel better as he stands behind and to the left of Talia's chair, watching her greet the members of his pack. He has his hands behind his back, letting his claws prick the skin to keep some semblance of control. The pain and repeated knitting together of the skin is far better for him to concentrate on than _her._

There are only six of them and she stands next in line, a smile curved across her face. 

The Kriminell alpha is lounging on his chair, twirling a lock of his ridiculous hair around his fingers. Peter knows for a fact that his name is Paul but he insists that everyone call him "Bear." Talia had to pinch Peter hard to keep him from laughing outright.

He's tall and thin, with blonde ringlets dragging across his shoulders, and if he could grow anything other than a neckbeard, well...Peter's a wererabbit and he'll eat himself. 

Amelia comes up to the platform and hands a wrapped package to Erica before bowing her head. Talia raises a hand and hesitates, long enough that the chatter stops and Bear (Peter scoffs in his head) perks his head up. The smell of Amelia's panic is starting to waft over, and Peter doesn't even try not to grin. Sometimes he really loves his big sister.

Finally, Talia does a cursory scent marking and waves the relieved woman away. The rest of the line passes without incident, aside from a few curious looks at Amelia, who's currently pouting behind the food table. 

The sound of Talia clapping her hands together seems to break the spell of ritual and everyone sags ever so slightly with relief. She introduces the McCall pack, who've been standing off to the side; which Peter hadn't even noticed. He's too busy being a good second. Or a bad second, depending on which way you look at it.

Bear and Scott nod at each other, and that's the end of it. Peter lets out an unsteady breath, packs meeting each other for the first time can be stressful. He watches as the three packs hesitantly mingle around the picnic tables groaning with food. He's quietly pleased to see his potato salad is almost gone. The secret ingredient is bacon, because everyone loves bacon. 

He sits on the edge of the platform with his legs drawn up and his elbows resting on his knees. He doesn't eat or make conversation, just casually people watches, nodding when he catches someone's eye. He doesn't see Amelia again and tries not to worry about what she's up to. It's not his problem anymore.

He also tries not to worry about what Stiles is up to, but he can't help himself with that one. Without even turning his head he can pinpoint exactly where Stiles is, hear his laugh above everyone else's, his heartbeat steady and slow. 

He smells sad from all the way across the yard and Peter fights the urge to go to him, or maybe to go and hide again. 

He concentrates hard, and Stiles fades into the buzz of other hearts and voices. Just barely.

He can't ignore the sounds of distress, though. Stiles' voice is light and amused, but his heart is beating faster, frantic almost, so Peter lets himself look over.

Bear has pushed him away from the crowd, into the shadows gathering around the edges, and is in his personal space. Stiles has one hand full with a plate of food and is smiling, but shaking his head repeatedly. Bear is murmuring too low to hear, his hands at Stiles' waist and his body pressed close.

Stiles gasps and drops his food when Bear pushes him again and licks his exposed neck. Peter growls and can _almost_ hear Talia calling his name as he pushes his way through the crowd without thinking. Someone attempts to grab his arm but releases it at his vicious snarl. 

Stiles sees him coming, his eyes wide and his face pale. Bear turns at the last second, catching the swipe of Peter's claws across his cheek. His eyes glow red and he roars, which should've had Peter instinctually backing off and baring his throat, but Peter has never been one for self-preservation, so he roars back, letting the shift take over. 

He registers a flicker of surprise in the alpha's eyes before he shifts too and leaps at Peter. It's all teeth, flying fur, and the taste of unfamiliar blood. The alpha is stronger than Peter, but his wolf won't yield. He can only think of protection and his territory in his blind fury.

He yowls when Bear clamps his jaws around Peter's hind leg and sinks his teeth in. Peter tries to get away but he's pinned beneath the bigger wolf's weight. He continues to snarl until he can see Stiles approaching. The alpha gives him one last shake and lets go, moving away. Stiles holds his hands out, hesitant, but still moving forward and murmuring soothing nonsense. 

"It's okay, big guy. Don't bite me, please. Shhh shhhhh," he holds his palms up to Peter's snout. He snuffles at them, absorbing his mates smell; it's healthy and clean, with just a hint of fear. He whimpers and licks them before resting his head in Stiles' lap. 

"What did you do that for, sillywolf? You could've been killed," Stiles pushes his face into Peter's fur and exhales heavily. The wound in Peter's leg is painful, taking longer to heal, and his mate next to him isn't the same as the pain being taken away but it's close. He closes his eyes and flicks his ears at Stiles, showing he's still listening to him babble, and lets his own breathing and heart rate slow down. 

***

Talia has forced Peter to shift back and he stands in the middle of the living room wearing loose sweatpants low on his hips, and absolutely nothing else. Scott won't let Stiles go to him, muttering something about staying out of the line of Talia's fire. 

Peter looks thoroughly unconcerned, wiping his claws off with a white towel, smearing it with blood. It looks as though one of his claws might've broken off, and between that and his bare feet, Stiles feels sick to his stomach. 

Bear is lounging against the mantle, and that vile Amelia woman is grinning and actually bouncing excitedly on her toes. Stiles reminds himself to hex her later when there are fewer witnesses. Talia stands beside Peter, outwardly calm, but Stiles can feel she's almost vibrating. If she was anyone else, Stiles bets she'd be wringing her hands and crying. 

Bear stands up and smirks. "Your beta attacked me, Alpha Hale. You know as well as I do, that's punishable by death."

"What?!" Stiles shouts, earning him a glare from Peter and a slight shake of his head.

"You're correct, Alpha Kriminell. But we're both modern packs. Surely there's no reason to resort to archaic law." 

"Of course not, Talia dear. I'm a reasonable wolf. Maybe if the beta will explain himself."

Stiles skin crawls at the way he won't refer to Peter by name.

Peter shrugs and raises an eyebrow. "I guess I'm just a creature of habit," he smirks at Bear, devoid of any humor. 

Talia actually throws her hands up and shakes her head, clearly unimpressed with Peter's arrogance. Amelia giggles behind her hand and Bear's eyes flash.

"He's obviously not contrite. If he's not concerned about his own life, then why should I be?" he holds up his hands and his claws pop out with an audible snick. He starts toward Peter, who calmly watches him come forward.

"Wait!" Stiles shouts, managing to wiggle out of Scott's grasp, leaving him with just a handful of Stiles flannel over shirt.

Stiles skids to a stop in front of Peter, palms held out. 

The scene has devolved into chaos, everyone shouting, as Peter growls, hauling him back away from Bear. Stiles can feel the sweat running down his back from being trapped between two angry werewolves. Not his most well thought out decision. But Bear has paused in his advance, and that counts as a victory.

"Just wait. I can explain," he gasps out.

Bear huffs out a sigh and rolls his eyes. "Fine. Can we just do this already?"

"Yes, as long as "this" doesn't include wolficide." 

Bear waves his hands to carry on.

"He couldn't help it, because I'm his mate." 

Peter grips his hip tight enough to leave bruises.

Bear squints. "You're not lying. But...you aren't together?"

"No. Despite the fact that he thinks I'm not good enough, it doesn't change his instincts."

"That's not..." Peter starts but Stiles reaches back and pats him, trying to mentally convey that this really isn't the time. Peter shuts up but won't release his grip. It's starting to hurt a bit, but also it's grounding Stiles. He stands a little straighter.

"Well. Why didn't you just say so? What a waste of fucking time," he shakes his head and gestures for Amelia to follow him out. He pauses in the doorway and addresses Peter.

"Don't think I won't rip your throat out if you do something like that again."

Peter snarls and Stiles slaps his arm. "Shut the fuck up, you idiot." 

Bear laughs. "And don't leave him alone too long. Someone's gonna to snatch his tight ass up whether you like it or not," he grins, all posturing forgotten.

Stiles grimaces but tries for a weak laugh before hiding his face in his hands. 

Peter disappears from behind him and he can hear Talia taking him to task using her scary alpha voice. 

"I think...I wanna go home," he reaches a hand out for Scott and lets out a relieved sigh when he's surrounded by his pack almost at once. They practically don't let go of him even as they navigate outside and down the porch steps. Scott pushes him gently into the middle seat of Boyd's massive SUV and he's squashed between Scott and Isaac, while Kira keeps her body turned around in the passenger seat to keep hold of his hands. Boyd drives but keeps glancing in the rear-view too often.

The adrenaline is slowly ebbing out and he feels totally drained of everything, both energy and emotion. Even his magic only tiredly flickers. He lets his head drop to Scott's shoulder and closes his eyes. He's still too keyed up to sleep, just letting his pack comfort him with their presence and touch.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to get the last chapter up. We had so much going on and you know life gets in the way. So thank you thank you for your patience and I hope it was worth the wait.

Stiles smells miserable, his hair is more chaotic than usual, and he has massive dark circles under his eyes. Peter can't pretend that he didn't know Stiles would be at the bar today, Talia had told him she was meeting with the emissary.

"To apologize for your actions," she'd poked him in the chest. 

He hadn't dignified it with a response, just winced and rubbed at his chest. He was grateful she wasn't forcing him to apologize himself.

But now, here he is, casually walking into the bar around the time he knows the meeting will be over, hoping to run into Stiles. 

His relief at seeing Stiles standing next to the pool tables, hands shoved into his impossibly tight jeans, sours when he sees the person standing beside him. 

"I've always liked emissaries. They're magic in bed, you know." 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "One. That was fucking terrible. Two. Yes we are. And five through fifty billion. No. Get the fuck out of my way."

Peter snickers and they both turned to look at him. Something flashes in Stiles' eyes before his entire face shuts down again, but Peter can hear how his heart stuttered for a second. He just isn't sure if it was a good stutter or a bad stutter. 

Amelia simply grins at Stiles, like the fucking psychopath she is. "Peter...my first love. I was just talking to your mate here. He's got quite the mouth on him." 

"Gross," Stiles mumbles. 

Peter let his eyes flash and his fangs descend, much to Amelia's further delight. 

"You won't hurt me, silly. If you could, you'd have done it years ago," she steps closer and runs a possessive hand across the tattoo on his neck. "What's this?"

Peter snatches her wrist and holds it too tightly, feeling the way the delicate bones grind together. "None of your business, sweetheart," he sneers at her. 

"Oh. Touchy. You always did get pissy when you weren't getting laid regularly," she doesn't struggle out of his grasp, but actually presses her body closer. "I could help you with that."

"For fuck's sake," he hears Stiles mutter, and the sharp scent of magic rises before it snaps and Amelia is sprawled on the floor, her nose bleeding. 

"You fucking asshole." 

Stiles' smile is bright and he shrugs. "Oops," he blows off the tips of his fingers like an old west cowboy.

Amelia rises from the floor and Peter steps closer to Stiles with a raised eyebrow.

"You two are no fun."

"Oh, I'm having fun." Stiles wiggles his fingers and glances at Peter, still grinning. "What about you honeybunches?"

"Oh, the best. Nothing like getting blood on my hands to start the party," he cracks his neck and lets his claws snick out, one by one.

Amelia scrambles off the floor and tugs at her clothes, setting them right with a huff. 

"Fine. I can take a hint. But Peter, snookums, maybe you should tell him what happened before I do. I'm sure you won't appreciate my version of events."

She turns to Stiles with a flip of her hair. 

"Watch out for him, he's dangerous." 

Stiles rolls his eyes as she stomps out of the bar, letting a strip of sunlight into the dim bar before the door swings shut again. 

Peter allows himself to feel good for a second, turning to Stiles with a triumphant grin. Stiles doesn't return it. He has his arms crossed and his mouth is set in a thin flat line. 

Peter rolls his eyes and slumps forward.

"What?"

Stiles scoffs. "Explain."

"There isn't anything to explain. Come on, can't we put this behind us? Please?"

"There isn't an 'us.' You dumped me. Remember?" 

Peter rolls his eyes again, and perches on the side of the pool table. "Which was obviously a mistake. I'm sorry. Okay?"

Stiles squints at him and flails. "No!! Not fucking okay! Yay, you're sorry," he snarks angrily. 

"What else do you want from me?"

"Oh gee. I don't know. How about...hmmm..." Stiles puts a finger to his chin and tilts his head, "...the truth?"

Peter scowls at him. "The truth is subjective," he sniffs.

Stiles glares at him.

"Fine!" Peter throws his arms in the air and stomps over to one of the booths. He bows and gestures for Stiles to take a seat.

Stiles slides into the booth but not far enough for Peter to join him, so he sighs and slides in across from him.

"You have to understand that I didn't think I'd ever find a mate. I'd given up the idea long before I met you."

"Oh, so now you'll admit I'm your mate?"

"Do you want me to finish my story, or do you plan to interrupt every sentence?"

Stiles glares but waves his hands for Peter to continue.

Peter clears his throat. "I found someone else. And I got married. It wasn't...the same, but we worked," he shrugs. "Until we didn't."

"You were married to that woman? That gross, homicidal, crazy lady?" Stiles stops. "You know what, it actually makes a lot of sense. Carry on."

"I'm flattered, truly," Peter licks his lips and sighs. "She cheated on me. Probably multiple times. I never smelled it on her, or sensed any lies, so it took a long time for me to find out what was happening. She'd been sleeping with an emissary, and he was using his magic to keep it from me."

"Oh," Stiles looks uncomfortable for the first time since Peter arrived at the bar.

"Yeah. Oh. Anyway, when I found out about him she lied; she told me the guy was a member of my own pack. A newer beta called Aaron. I...I ripped his throat out without a second thought." 

"You killed an innocent," Stiles breathes.

"I did. Don't worry, I also killed the human she was cheating with. I couldn't bring myself to kill her though. I guess I loved her in my own way. Talia ran her out of town and I hadn't seen her since she turned up with the Kriminell pack."

Stiles is silent, but Peter refuses to beg him for an answer, so he keeps talking.

"I got the tattoo to remind me."

"Of what?"

"Never to trust anyone, or fall in love, again."

"Do you trust me?" Stiles whispers.

"Yes, absolutely."

Stiles looks down at the table, running a finger across a particular large scratch.

"Do you love me?" 

Peter waits until Stiles looks up at him, and nods his head once. 

"Alright."

The unfamiliar feeling of hope blooms in Peter's chest before Stiles pushes himself up and out of the booth.

"Too little, too late." He says it flippant and shakes his head then walks out without a backward glance. 

Peter slumps down, resting his head against the back of the bench and tries to ignore how the hope dies and defeat fills in it's place.

***

It's been a month and Peter is frankly disgusted with himself. He's forced himself to give up on Stiles. He's seen other members of the McCall pack, but never Stiles, and he can't stand the way he holds his breath every time, waiting for Stiles to be with them. And the way his heart skips when he never is. He imagines Scott stepping to the side and Stiles being there, grinning and declaring that he can't live without Peter and how dumb it is that they're apart.

Sometimes he's naked. Peter doesn't like to censor where his mind goes in his private time. 

So when he opens the door to actual (fully clothed, sadly) Stiles, he just blinks and stares, waiting for his brain to catch up and make his fantasy disappear. 

Stiles huffs and pushes past Peter into the living room. He smells tired but there's lingering traces of something else; not happy, but content. He still has that burnt sugar, magic smell and Peter may slam the door a little too hard to keep himself from rubbing his face all over Stiles.

"Hey." 

Peter raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "Do come in."

"I miss you," Stiles' mouth ticks up on one side.

"Well, I don't miss you. I'm actually quite busy right now," Peter isn't sure why his mouth insists on saying the exact opposite of his brain.

"You're lying." 

Peter shrugs and refuses to reply.

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. "I was supposed to come here so we could talk and fix everything, but I can't focus."

Peter tilts his head, but before he can ask, Stiles has taken a running leap and Peter has to catch him or be knocked over. Stiles has his arms wrapped around Peter's shoulders and legs around his waist in one swift move, he weighs next to nothing but the momentum has Peter stumbling back and hitting the wall with a thud. 

He slides his hands under Stiles ass, hauling him up, and closer to his mouth. Stiles laughs before kissing him; his mouth is hot and Peter groans when he slips his tongue inside. He doesn't know what this is, or where it's going, but he can't really bring himself to worry. He slides one hand up under Stiles' shirt to balance him. 

"Oh fuck, you feel so fucking good," Stiles wrenches himself away with a gasp.

Peter blinks at him and chases his mouth but Stiles pulls back a little, so Peter growls and bites at his neck instead. He licks a long stripe up the side and Stiles vibrates beneath him. 

"Wait. Wait." 

"No," Peter hitches him closer and starts walking towards his bedroom.

"Oh god this should not be so hot," Stiles squeezes his legs around Peter's waist. 

Peter reaches the bed without tripping over anything in his haze, and tries to drop Stiles onto the bed.

"Oh no, not letting go of you." 

"That'll become difficult, don't you think?"

"What are you complaining?" 

"Of course not. Please, cling like a limpet, by all means," he kneels on the edge of the bed and, with one hand planted beside Stiles' head, he lowers them both down until he's lying on top of him. 

"Mmmm. Much better," Stiles grins.

"I think I can make it better."

Peter reaches over his shoulder and pulls his shirt over his head one handed, flinging it across the room, and pushes his sweats down, kicking them off until they're in a tangle on the floor. 

Stiles' eyes are wide as he runs his hands across Peter's shoulders, scratching lightly down his back. He has to reach a little, but he gets a hand on Peter's ass and squeezes. 

"My turn!" he shouts, lifting his arms up.

Peter rolls off him and takes hold of his own cock, already hard. "Go ahead," he waves with his other hand.

Stiles' mouth hangs open as he watches the way Peter's slowly fucking up into his hand. Peter smirks at him, making a show of it, moving his hips and letting his head fall back.

"Fuck...," Stiles mumbles, shaking himself before scrambling to get his own clothes off. Once he's naked he makes jazz hands at Peter. "Ta-da!"

Peter rolls his eyes and reaches for him, pulling him down so they lie side by side. They kiss again, softly compared to their usual frantic biting, and get lost in the rhythm. Peter lets his hands roam across Stiles' flanks, rubbing long sweeps back and forth, whilst Stiles has his hands fisted in Peter's hair, letting out delicious, eager noises every time their cocks rub together. 

Without stopping what they're doing, Peter slides his hands beneath the pillow and pulls out the lube, flicking it open with his thumb, before coating his fingers. He inches closer and hitches Stiles' leg up over his hip. Stiles smiles into the kiss and presses closer, rubbing his cock against Peter's with more intent this time. 

Peter presses one finger against Stiles' hole, waiting for him to tense in surprise, but he just seems to melt into it, and Peter can feel him furl open as he pushes in. Stiles breaks the kiss with a gasp and a moan.

"Fuck, Peter...more. It's been too long, I need your cock."

"Mmmm. You were always hungry for my cock, weren't you?" he presses a second finger in and crooks them to find Stiles' prostate. 

Stiles jerks in his arms and fucks himself down with a wail. "Yeah, I am! Give me your cock, Peter. Fill me up with it. No one else can fuck me like you," he's panting now, looking like something from every single one of Peter's fantasies over the last month.

Peter bites back a groan as he pulls his fingers out, rolling Stiles over to his stomach and ignoring all protests. He gets on his knees behind Stiles and hitches his hips up. He pauses to admire the move of Stiles' muscles and bones beneath the skin, his back arched and fists clenched in the sheets. His hips keep pushing back in mindless little thrusts, like he can't control himself.

Peter runs a hand down between his shoulders and rests it right above the swell of his ass, pressing down a little into the sway of his back before he goes back to working Stiles open. He tilts his head a little to the side so he can get an unobstructed view of his fingers disappearing into Stiles' ass; first two, then three, scissoring them open. He's so hard it's almost painful. He can't remember the last time he'd gone so long without, and he grits his teeth, trying not to just shove in and _taketaketake._

Once Stiles is a mewling, begging mess beneath him he finally decides his patience has reached its limit, and slicks his cock. Taking it in hand, around the base, and keeping his hand pressed against Stiles' back, he guides it in slowly. 

"Mmm...did you miss me, Stiles?" he breathes in and out deeply, gripping at Stiles' hips, trying his best to take it slowly.

"I missed your fucking dick," Stiles grumbles, shoving himself back until Peter is all the way inside his ass, balls smacking up against Stiles', and Peter sputters a choked off sound at the feeling of instant heat and squeezing tightness.

Stiles starts rolling his hips against Peter's. "Is this how we do, Peter? You gonna make me do all the dirty work, Daddy?" 

Peter growls, fighting to control his shift; Stiles has always balked at the nickname in the past and it's completely ruthless of him to use it now. 

"Oh I'm gonna fuck you until you remember who you belong to," he pushes Stiles' hips down to the bed, forcing his knees to splay out even wider, and starts up a punishing rhythm. 

"Stay," he commands, and lets go, putting his hands up and lacing his hands behind his head, forcing Stiles to brace himself before he gets pushed into the headboard.

"Fuck you," Stiles mumbles, but Peter just smirks at himself in the bureau mirror. He gets distracted from looking at himself by the way Stiles' ass is bouncing on his cock; the way it moves back and forth, almost wave like, is mesmerizing him. He thrusts faster in an attempt to get it to move with him. 

Stiles looks back at him and lets out a breathless laugh. "Look ma, no hands!"

Peter smirks and leans over, slowing down to a more shallow thrust. "You want my hands on you, Stiles?" he whispers directly into Stiles' ear.

"Mmmmm, God. I love it when you say my name like that." 

Peter grabs his hips again and bends himself in half to lick a wet stripe up Stiles' spine. He wraps his hands around the narrow waist and lifts Stiles up to press forwards against his chest, their sweaty skin sliding together. Stiles reaches up behind him to pull Peter into a sloppy sideways kiss, his hands pulling tight in his hair and scratching Peter's scalp. 

Peter moans through the kiss and slides his hands up to grip at Stiles' throat, his claws pressed lightly against the skin there, his other hand slipping down to Stiles' erection. It's dripping with precome, and Peter slicks his hand through it before gripping it and pulling up in a long stroke. All the while, his knot is growing and catching at Stiles' rim.

"Yes, yes, knot me, Daddy!" 

"Fuuuuuck," Peter bites a little too hard with his human teeth on Stiles' shoulder, slamming his hips one more time and coming deep inside him. 

He lets his whole body spasm and go limp, slumping over Stiles a little. He's shaken out of his orgasm daze by Stiles smacking at his arm. 

"Hey, buddy! What about me?"

He rolls his hips again, gesturing at his cock, bobbing against his stomach, red and swollen, precome slicking his little line of stomach hair. 

"Oh right. Terribly sorry," Peter leans back and gets a grip on Stiles again; it only takes a few strokes before he's tensing and then coming with a shake and an almost quiet gasp.

"Okay okay...we gotta lie down. This isn't doing good things for my poor asshole."

Peter rolls his eyes and huffs, but acquiesces, manhandling himself and Stiles onto their sides, tucking him up tightly against his chest. 

"I did _so_ miss your post coital pillow talk. Always so good at ruining the moment."

"Shut up," Stiles slurs. His breathing is slowing and his body going slack.

"G'night, kitten."

"Ugh."

Peter lets out a laugh, pushing his face into Stiles' neck, before letting sleep take him as well.

***

It's dark when he wakes up; he doesn't even need to open his eyes to feel the moonlight pouring into the room. He stretches, luxuriating in it, pushing his arms and legs out with a pleased grunt. 

When he opens his eyes, the room is illuminated by the glowing of Stiles' laptop propped on the bed in front of him. He's pulled on a pair of Peter's boxers and is munching on a sandwich while scrolling through something. 

"I hope you cleaned us up before making that," Peter sits up and steals the other half off its plate without waiting for an answer.

"Nope. It's a splooge sandwich," Stiles grins, showing the food in his mouth. 

"Ugh," Peter eats his sandwich, watching Stiles' face. 

Stiles swallows his bite and dusts his hands off over the plate. 

"Alright. So we need to talk."

"Ugh," Peter repeats himself. 

"So, I'm your mate..."

It'd been such a forgone conclusion that Peter had forgotten they hadn't ever discussed this.

"Yes. You are."

"And you love me."

Peter looks down at his sandwich. "Yes."

"Okay. Well, I love you too."

Peter looks up, both eyebrows raised. 

"I mean, I'm still pretty pissed at you. Here's a novel idea...communication! Wow! Just think, if you'd told me what was going on, we could've been having mind blowing sex this whole time. But no, you had to act like a commitment-phobe idiot."

"I don't know what to say about that," Peter huffs.

"Nothing. There's nothing for you to add. It's 100% true."

"If you say so." 

"I do. Now we've got that out of the way. I'm your mate and from what I understand, in wolfy terms, that means we're meant to be, right?" he waits for Peter's reluctant nod. "And we love each other, which in human terms is a pretty big deal too. So I say you need to suck it up and give us a chance."

He pauses and Peter watches him for a minute.

"Oh. Am I allowed to speak now?"

Stiles makes an irritated scoffing sound and gestures for him to go on.

"Thank you. So thrilled to participate. I'm prepared to give this a chance," he slumps a little. "I don't trust easy. I trust you for some reason though. And that's the one thing that really matters in my terms."

"Alright. Good," Stiles leans over and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder.

"Now. Parameters. Ground rules. Guidelines. Etcetera etcetera," Stiles cracks his knuckles. "First, I don't share."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Obviously."

"Second, I need you to talk to me. If you get the willies about us, just tell me for fuck's sake!"

"Fine. If I get "the willies" I'll talk to you first," Peter sighs heavily, but inside he feels something warm settling in his chest.

"And lastly, I need you to not kill anyone." 

Peter balks at that. " _Anyone,_ Stiles? That's asking a lot. I am Talia's right hand, after all."

"Okay, fine. Pack business is different. But no willy nilly killing."

Peter examines his nails. "But some people just need to die. You can't deny that, sweet pea."

Stiles ignores the nickname. "Okay, fiiiiine. Just run it by me first."

"Sometimes there just isn't enough time for that. What if I accidentally kill someone?"

"Accidental murder? That's what you're going with?" Stiles fixes him with a flat look.

Peter shrugs. "You know if you loved me really, you wouldn't want me to change." 

"I can't believe you are throwing it in my face already! You're so manipulative!" Stiles throws his hands up, jostling the laptop. Peter can tell he's already going to let it slide though. "Fine. Just at least let me know you've done it, okay? I can at least help you hide the body."

Peter raises both eyebrows at him in disbelief.

"Really? I'm offended. You think I need help hiding bodies. Trust me, darling, that's something I excel at," he runs a hand up Stiles' inner thigh, "...amongst other things."

Stiles lets his legs fall open and his breath hitches.

"Wait," he grabs Peter's wandering hand. "Can we please just agree first that for us to work we have to talk about shit?"

"Yes. Wonderful. We'll talk about shit to your heart's content Stiles. You're so eloquent."

He rolls Stiles over until he's lying on his back and Peter's hovering above him on his elbows. He rests one hand against the side of Stiles' face and grins at the way he nuzzles into it.

"You're mine. I'm not letting you go again. I can promise that with all certainty."

"I'm not yours. I'm mine. But I appreciate the sentiment," Stiles smirks.

"Oh can we please argue semantics, or can I fuck you again?"

"Mmm...can't we do both?"

Peter sighs, put upon. "You're the worst mate I could've imagine. I can't believe I'm stuck with you for life."

"Oh shut it. You love me, Creeperwolf. Now, let's make up for lost time here," Stiles rolls his hips up into Peter's and grins.

Peter huffs haughtily, but leans down to shut his mate up with a thorough kiss.He sighs happily and lets himself sink into it. His wolf curls up contently, the warm glow in his chest releases, and he feels anchored for the very first time in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. Finally done. Thank you again for everyone who got invested and thank you for all the love. It's my first Steter and I think the Steter fandom are our people. Come say hi on Tumblr and I can't promise I will get to them right away but feel free to prompt me. I love to hear your ideas and head canons. Anyways. Thank you this much. (that's the whole internet btw. All of it.)

**Author's Note:**

> My [ tumblr. ](http://www.sweetbutterbliss.tumblr.com)


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